


Tasteless

by DrageeKeksi



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: BAMF Malcolm Bright, Blood and Gore, Cadavers, Cannibalism, Gen, Hunting, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Stalking, animals will die so be warned, family and friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrageeKeksi/pseuds/DrageeKeksi
Summary: Whenever life grants them a light of hope Malcolm immediately sees it ripped away. They were supposed to be happy. Ainsley was having a successful breakthrough in her carrier, Malcolm was managing extraordinarily fine, and Jessica was very proud.In their happiest but weakest moment, they were attacked, and it may well be that the reason tracks back to the roots of all evil in this family: Dr. Martin Whitly, the Surgeon. Convicted Serial Killer for 23 murders?}-{Malcolm has a stalker and Martin more dark secrets than previously assumed. Whump assured.(Takes place before that Endicott drama, so still S1)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird
Comments: 20
Kudos: 69





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome!  
> Now, I haven't forgotten about my other fic (Let's play a game) and I promise I will update soon. I just needed a break and write again instead of editing all the time.  
> This story is still in the process, so it may take a while.  
> Enjoy! :)

"A real and hairy tarantula!"

"I'm sure everyone's dying to know: Have you ever tried one yourself?"

"No, Jeff, I definitely haven't, although I'm pretty sure our lovely candidates can say otherwise after this discipline."

He observes the camera swaying to the other group of people with an amused snort. Eating a hairy spider? How desperate does one person need to be to actually do that? Of course, Malcolm Bright, born Whitly, never was on the poor side to have a real say in this. Although he experienced malnourishment plenty of times and even then he'd rather die than force himself to eat shit, spiders, or bugs, any of that kind.

He turns around just in time to miss the candidate open his mouth to swallow the hairy monster. The gagging he hears is his own and he shudders alone from the imagination. This show is sick and Malcolm knows he won't watch it in the near future. His stomach is already sensitive as it is, he doesn't need to worsen his situation.

He passes the rest of the time on his phone, distracting himself from the noises of the television while resting on the horribly expensive yet uncomfortable leather couch. He is slightly pissed he had to leave work so early, but unfortunately, there was not much to do for their current case at the moment, and... He promised.

"That's it for the day! Congratulations to Thomas Harsen! Tune in next week when it's time for _Tasteless_!"

Malcolm snorts as he lifts his gaze. He observes the scenery zooming out, red glitter raining down on the group of people. The television turns black for a second before it switches immediately to an advertisement about soap.

 _Tasteless_. The newest show on the market, airing today its premiere. It may be not Malcolm's thing to watch, but there are sure plenty of people who enjoy watching other people eat disgusting stuff. Obviously to laugh at their hilarious reactions when they gag on the food in their throat, combined with matching puns. It's quite a show.

The only reason Malcolm finds himself in the studio of Tasteless though is his little sister, Ainsley Whitly. He spots her walking down the hall, wildly chattering with her new colleague Jeffrey McGorney. They are the two presenters of the show. On camera, they are like cat and dog, but it seems backstage they understand each other pretty well.

Ainsley spots Malcolm the second the two colleagues depart. Her walk towards him is constantly accompanied by the loud clattering of her heels and a big toothy grin.

"How was I?" She blurts out excitedly, her body exploding with endorphins.

"You were great!" Malcolm chirps back proudly, enjoying his sister bursting out in happiness. She begins to chatter freely and with a childish spark in her eyes. Malcolm's smile falters a bit, he can't bring himself to keep track of her words. Her story enters his mind and immediately slips out, he catches himself zoning out and barely zoning in anymore.

"What did you think? Malcolm?"

"Hm?" He widens his eyes and looks at his sister, flinching when he realizes she asked him a question. "What do I think about what?" He repeats embarrassed, but Ainsley already narrows her eyes at him.

"Were you even watching the show?" She questions with crossed arms. Malcolm knows she will notice a lie before he can even think of trying. He scratches his neck and flees her disapproving eyes.

"I did..." He claims, drifting off at the end. "My stomach was just revolting whenever they ate so I didn't watch everything." He admits ashamed. It's self-explanatory how little he watched of the show, eating is practically everything they do.

Ainsley shrugs it off with a laugh. "Seriously? You can look at corpses without blinking, but this-" She motions to a poster of the new show "-is too much for your stomach?"

Malcolm follows her hand dutifully before looking back and nodding. "Did you not see the huge spider they..." He trails off and shudders in disgust. "It was really hairy and disgusting, yikes! Let's talk about something else okay?"

Ainsley snorts at his comment and walks out of the building through the automatic door. She waves for a cab. Malcolm trembles once he's outside. It's cold, too cold for spring. Not to mention the rain that is pouring down like a waterfall.

"So how's work?" Ainsley speaks up, following his advice of changing the topic, unfortunately not in Malcolm's favor again. He always needs to be careful when talking with Ainsley, she is still with the news. If he would slip out relevant information of a case Ainsley would feed upon it. And Gil would most likely kill him.

"I can't tell you anything about the case, Ains, you know that." He grumbles reproachfully at her. She grins and lifts her hand at being caught. She handles the dismissal lightly.

"If not the case then tell me about _you_. How are _you_ coping with your work?" She hums with a smug grin. She knows she just turned the dagger. Another topic Malcolm loves to avoid. Any attempts to lead the conversation back to Ainsley's life are futile, he's aware of that. She already bid her fair share and now it's his turn.

"It's alright. With have a solid lead, but I still need some advice." He confesses. Ainsley raises her eyebrows.

"You're going to Dad?"

Malcolm cringes at the thought. He doesn't like it either, he doesn't like how Martin managed to entangle him yet again in this net that keeps pulling him back to him, again and again.

"Yeah, I have to. He has relevant information about the darker market. I'm not well informed of that period like him, it was still before I was born." He explains casually, his hands supporting with mild gestures. "It'll be quick, in and out. Get that information and wrap that case up." He pops the 'p' and crosses his fingers with a grin, but the humor rushes past Ainsley. Her eyes are fixated somewhere else, demanding her full attention.

The cab halts next to them, urging the siblings to get in, but Ainsley is still somewhere else. Trapped in her thoughts.

"Ains?" Malcolm pushes her slender shoulder gently, she still jerks violently. "Is something wrong?" He asks worried, frowning at his sister. Ainsley ignores him and points to the car. "Look, the cab. Let's get in." She states and opens the door.

Malcolm rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Yeah, I noticed." He grumbles and squeezes himself into the tight backseat. Ainsley sits right beside him, fidgeting nervously with her fingers. Malcolm sighs, waiting for the car to drive before addressing the matter.

"Something's wrong, obviously." He points out and throws a reproachful look at her. She looks up at him and he urges her to speak up with his facial expression, surprised when her only reaction is a soft chuckle.

"It's nothing." She admits eventually.

Malcolm snorts unsatisfied. "Seriously? We gonna take that road?" He grumbles, having a bitter taste of his own medicine. He always acts the same, and now he feels kind of sorry for the others having to deal with him. He is motivated not to change his ways of coping, but he dearly wants to keep his little sister away from it. He knows from experience that it's not good and once you start it's like a drug. He can't open up anymore, it takes more willpower for him than standing up with a knife wound. He should know it.

"What?" Ainsley bites back, backing into a corner. "You always do the same." She counters.

Malcolm shrugs. "Because I'm an idiot. Now would like to tell me what's bothering you or do you really intend to follow in my footsteps?" Malcolm grins, knowing he has her. He may have been a role model for Ainsley while they were still children, but he can't imagine that's still the case. He's a total mess, got fired from the FBI while Ainsley was practically promoted to moderate a show. How could someone amazing like her ever look up to him, the walking human disaster?

"It doesn't have to be anything big, Ains." He finds himself saying, surprised. He realizes immediately that he's hit the nail on the head with his statement.

"I've just been feeling a little bit on the edge since we aired our advertisement two weeks ago." She confesses, biting her lip troubled. "Tasteless?" Malcolm checks to which Ainsley retorts "What else, dummy?"

Malcolm gives her a comforting smile and squeezes her shoulder. She looks at him confused. "I bet everyone's just realizing what a cool woman they've got in the media." He claims, making her chuckle. "No seriously, you're amazing and I'll think people will finally recognize it." He promises earnestly. He means it. He wishes his sister only the best. She deserves it. It's not like he was the only one suffering under his name. He always admired his sister for being strong and keeping her family name, unlike the coward he is.

"Thanks, Mal." She hums, and he could swear there was a faint wet flicker in her eyes. "We're here by the way." She mentions and points behind him to relocate his attention from her. Malcolm grants her a little break and deals with the cab driver in the meantime.

They hurry out of the car and run towards the porch of their mother's mansion. Malcolm already has his keys in his hands so they can quickly escape the rain. He observes Ainsley fumbling through her handbag, hastily searching for her own pair of keys. "It has to be somewhere..." She mutters irritated.

Malcolm shoves her aside and walks up to the front door to open it himself. "Maybe you forgot it at your apartment." He offers his assumption while turning his key in the lock. Ainsley holds her pair of keys in her hands and studies it suspiciously, missing to find one key in particular. "Probably."

She drops her keys back in her purse and follows Malcolm inside, promising herself to deal with it later. They are first greeted with warmth and a lovely smell. Malcolm's working on dismantling himself from his coat and hanging it to the hallstand.

"Malcolm, Ainsley!" Jessica chirps and catwalks to her children, giving each a short hug. She ends with Ainsley and rubs her arms with a proud expression. "I watched your show, dear, you were marvelous!" She praises. Ainsley smiles awkwardly as she thanks her mother. You really don't need to be a profiler to see that Jessica wasn't being completely honest. She most definitely didn't watch the show, or maybe only the beginning. Neither of the siblings could imagine Jessica Whitly with all her grace watch a crude show like Tasteless.

"Come, I've made cranberry-orange roasted ducklings with a fine glass of wine!" She bellows and stalks back to the living room, leaving both siblings standing at the entrance. Malcolm shakes his head. "You've made?" He blows, knowing too well his mother pays for an excellent cook. Ainsley chortles, but Malcolm just has a feeling the smile doesn't reach her eyes. The joy isn't real.

Before he can say anything she leaves him and he has to move as well. He wanted to address his concern for her again, it seemed more intense than before. Unfortunately, the table is already laid. "Malcolm, sit down." His mother orders and pats the empty side of the table. Malcolm sighs in defeat, slowly trudging to his place.

He doesn't want to announce his concern out loud. He knows how his mother can get when she's worried. He doesn't want to put Ainsley in that position, that isn't fair to her. So he tries his best to ignore it and swallow some of the offered food. Bit by bit he can manage.

"So who's that new colleague of yours?" Jessica speaks up and leans on her open palm. Malcolm mimics her position the best he can and sends exaggerated flirting looks to Ainsley opposite of him. The effects are pleasing, Ainsley opens her mouth in panic and quickly bursts into snickers. It lifts some of the tension burdening his sister and Malcolm is temporarily satisfied.

"It's Jeff, Jeffrey McGorney." She introduces him. Malcolm assumes he is quite famous in the world of media, but neither he nor his mother watch TV often. Especially not some reality shows or else.

Jessica smiles and wiggles her eyebrows at her daughter. Ainsley places down her silverware and glares at her. "He is already married, mother." She elucidates for all of them, enough for Jessica to let it drop with a disappointed sigh. "Not for long," Malcolm murmurs quietly and digs listlessly into his food.

"What did you say?" Ainsley gnarls, an amused smile telling her off. Malcolm smirks into his plate, he did make sure to say it loud enough for her to hear.

"Ah ow!" He whines playfully when the little kick connects with his shin. It's totally worth it when he sees Ainsley giggling as a reward.

All the while they chatter, alright mostly Jessica babbles about some gossips in the wealthy world, but both siblings listen eagerly. They have nothing else to distract themselves so they actually decide to meddle in the conversation. Until it starts to go back into dating and it becomes uncomfortable for both Malcolm and Ainsley.

"I can give you her number if you want, she's a real sweetheart." Jessica raves about a pretty woman from who knows where and the family I don't care. Malcolm suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as he politely declines. Momentarily he has no thought to spare for love, he rather prefers to wait and if something happens, it happens. That's how he found Eve. Although their relationship sadly didn't last too long.

"Speaking of sweetheart, I have dessert!" Jessica changes the topic professionally. She waves to the cook in the kitchen, a sign to bring over the prepared dishes. "Not for me, thanks." Ainsley declines, but Jessica refuses to accept it. "Don't be ridiculous, it's not much, practically air." She claims and relaxes in her seat while chaos erupts in the kitchen.

"For a good dessert you don't need to be hungry, just have some appetite. Right, Malcolm?" She smiles at him to the left and he forces a steady nod. If he's being honest, he isn't sure if he can eat another bite, especially not something sweet. He loves sweets, that's not it. He prefers a good soup or just some sweets for the day instead of big meals, it's enough to make his brain work. But if he already managed to eat half a meal there simply is no more room for dessert. Although he knows better than to argue with his mother.

"Also, we need to celebrate your premiere properly." Jessica adds to her argument. Ainsley surrenders with a soft smile. "Of course we do." She answers just when the waiters bring the plates and set them down in front of them. Ainsley eyes the silver cloche over the plate with amusement.

"A surprise?" She quips.

Jessica's smile quivers.

Malcolm smells the foul odor before the cook lifts the cloche.

The metal disappears and reveals a brilliant sight of an ugly dead rat on their plate.

Malcolm's world is reduced to female cries as his own food crawls up his throat.

Bon Appetit, Whitly!

* * *


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been extraordinarily productive today.

The blue and right lights flood into the house, invade the peaceful night. Police cars outside the Whitly mansion aren't uncommon anymore, and despite all the bad memories connected to the day he lost his father, Malcolm feels safe in the embrace of the play of blue and red colors. Despite losing his father that day he gained a new friend, if not even a surrogate father.

Malcolm is outside, breathing into the fresh air. The second he saw the dead rat before him the food in his sensitive stomach revolted, throwing up the first part. When his stomach calmed down Jessica dragged him away from the table by his arm. Though the foul odor wouldn't leave his nostrils, he barely managed to say 'Gil' before Jessica ordered his sister to lead him outside where part two of his meal emerged into freedom.

Jessica took the advice and called Gil immediately. He arrived minutes later with some officers in tow. He caught Malcolm and Ainsley outside on the stairs, giving his neck a gentle squeeze. Malcolm urged him to go inside and help his mother. He remained outside with Ainsley, inhaling deeply, and exhaling slowly like he was taught to.

"I'm sorry." Ainsley whispers, barely audible in between his loud wheezes. He manages to bring up a smile, telling her she has nothing to be sorry about. Her expression remains emotionless and she leaves him alone, returning inside.

When Malcolm concludes he has regained his control over his stubborn stomach he returns back into the mansion. He ignores the police officers, yet again invading their house. Memories coaxing him back to the deep black hole. He needs something to do, something to distract himself.

"Kid, you better?" Gil notices him and marches towards him, intentionally producing a border between Malcolm and the table. Malcolm is truly grateful for that simple action. He doesn't want to see the greasy and bloody fur of the beaten dead rat again. The torn open eyes, the sharp teeth emerging from the opened grimace-

"Yeah, I guess so." Malcolm answers, shaking away the image of the deceased animal. "Did my mother tell you what happened?" He asks, and it is a stupid question, he knows. Of course his mother must've told him what happened. What else should she have done? But he doesn't know what else to say and he needs to say something. Anything to preoccupy his wild mind.

"She filled me in, we're taking in the statements of the staff. I don't think they did it, kid." Gil answers honestly, a troubled expression on his face. Malcolm nods absently. "I think so, too. Just a gut feeling, but they also seemed genuinely shocked." He responds. He doesn't remember all faces, everything had happened in such a blur. Still, his gut is telling him this wasn't done by an intern. Although minutes ago his gut also had thrown up everything in his body, so there were some doubts.

"But how could have the responsible prepared this if he wasn't one of the staff?" Gil questions rightfully. It's the only thing making sense. Someone should've noticed the funky smell, or that the plate was too heavy for a light dessert.

"Sorry, but we didn't prepare the dessert."

Gil and Malcolm simultaneously look up to meet the cook's gaze. He is sweating heavily, his brown hair sticking to his forehead under his toque. Malcolm throws a questioning glance at him.

"You didn't prepare the dessert?" He recaptures irritated. Someone must've put the rat on the plate and delivered it. They couldn't have stored the three plates with the cloche in the refrigerator all day.

The elder cook stutters nervously. "I mean, of course we prepared the dessert. It was supposed to be a trifle with chocolate, caramel, cream, and baileys. It needs to be cooled for a good while, so we made it earlier. I mean, we still had to prepare the main dish."

Malcolm nods in understanding. "The duckling, I'm following." He affirms and tells Gil at the same time what the meal was. A big and complicated one, it surely takes up some time.

"We were a bit under time pressure, so we decorated the dessert somewhere around five pm. We placed them ready to serve in the cooler. The next time we took them out they were on their way to the table." The cook finishes, his nervousness slowly dissipating.

Gil scowls. "Why did none of the waiters check underneath the cover thingy even once. I mean, it has a strong smell and should be quite heavy." He objects skeptically. Malcolm nods reluctantly, although he has to admit it even took a while for him to figure out the smell. He wouldn't be surprised if his sister nor mother didn't notice a thing.

"The waiters can't know how heavy it is supposed to be, lieutenant." The cook defends. "And I don't blame them for missing the smell, things can go very fast when you're working."

"We don't blame them either, don't worry," Gil assures the agitated man. "Thanks for answering our questions." He puts one hand over Malcolm's shoulder and leads him further away from the table.

"Do you want me to take you home?" He asks gently. Malcolm freezes on his spot and looks defiantly up to Gil. "I can't leave them alone, not after what just happened." He protests. He looks for his mother and sister in the mess. They are both standing next to the chimney, currently giving their official statement to a pair of officers.

"I know," Gil mumbles, watching them as well. He reverts his gaze back to Malcolm. "But we also have a murder to solve tomorrow." Malcolm nods, he understands Gil needs him clean and rested, but how is he supposed to find any rest after _that_? Even on good days he has problems finding sleep, today he doesn't even need to try.

"I'll send my best detectives on this case," Gil promises, "but meanwhile we need to catch a killer." He looks down at Malcolm, captures his worried grimace. "Are you still up for it or do you need some time off?"

Time off. The magic words for Bright to push aside any worry. "No! No, I'm fine. 100%- no wait, let's say 90%. Still good enough." He rambles frightened, any color disappearing from his already pale face. Gil chuckles softly, massaging Malcolm's neck to calm both of them down. They notice the two officers leaving Ainsley and Jessica. Malcolm nods to Gil.

"I'm going to tell them." He decides. "Then you can bring me home."

Gil claps his shoulder in affirmation and turns around to talk to his officers in the meantime.

"Malcolm, is everything alright?" Jessica squeaks the moment she notices Malcolm approaching. Malcolm smiles at her, trying to diminish any more concerns from her mind. Although when he sees Ainsley hugging her arms while mindlessly staring into nothing, he loses hope.

"Everything's going to be alright." He promises them, taking his mother in a comforting hug. "Gil's sending his best detectives on the case. They will find that freak in a matter of days, don't worry."

Jessica pulls away, her eyes wide open. "You're not going to investigate yourself?" She splutters.

Malcolm cringes, debating on how he could explain without hurting her feelings. "Mother, I am with Major crimes investigating a current murder. I can't..." He rings for the right words, Jessica chooses for him. "Spare a minute to protect your family?"

The bitterness swaying by makes him ill all over again. He wishes he could just leave, but he knows it's better for everyone if _he_ does the explaining. "No mother, what happened here tonight is not okay. That's why we will have our best detectives working on the case. Just not us, major crimes needs to solve that murder urgently. Do you understand?"

Jessica furrows her brows. "So you're saying, something truly horrible needs to happen before you consider this is worth your attention?" She snarks at him offended. No, of course she doesn't understand.

"Jessica." Gil approaches from behind Malcolm, obviously coming for the rescue. "I assure you I have my best detectives on this case. But I need your son on a murder case. There is a family who wants to know what happened to the victim and we can't afford to let them down either." He explains calmly, which Malcolm is extremely grateful for. Another minute and he would've snapped with his mother's stubbornness.

Gil manages to reach through to her. Her defiant expression quickly turns into one of desperation and worry, a look both men are sadly very familiar with. Gil places a hand on hers. "I know you're afraid for your children. But I assure you, we got this." Jessica looks at him with big eyes, her bright red lips parted in a muted gasp. Subconsciously her hand wanders up, fumbling on Gil's shoulder affectionately. "Thanks." She mutters weakly.

Malcolm turns to Ainsley who hasn't changed her position once. "Ainsley?" He hums carefully, still she perks up in shock. He is deeply worried about her, but he knows better now is not the right time. "Shall we bring you home?" He asks for Gil's behalf.

She doesn't budge, the words processing in her brain in slow motion. Eventually, she shakes her head vehemently. "No!" She gasps, frantic enough for everyone to notice the odds. "I'll stay here, take care of mom." She adds more calmly, nearer to being her normal self.

Malcolm nods unconvinced, exchanging doubting looks with Gil. He opens his mouth, but the lieutenant manages to put a hand on his shoulder, reminding him he shouldn't profile friends and family.

So Malcolm closes his mouth and settles to silence.

He hugs both in a goodbye, promises to drop by the next day where he hopes to find out what's bothering his little sister. His protective instincts are running crazy, he can't think straight working like this. He leaves the mansion with Gil, trudging through the bright play of red and blue lights. He closes his eyes, clenches them tight to forget. To forget just for a second his crazy life, all of his nightmares, worries, and fears.

But whenever Malcolm closes his eyes he's never greeted by peace. Only more horror as he stares his devilish grinning father into those malicious eyes.

He blinks his eyes open, taking a deep and shuddering breath.

He's fine, everything's going to be fine. A beautiful wonderful lie he's telling himself. But in the end, it never changes, remains one thing through and through.

A lie.

* * *


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I so uncreative? Like, chapter 3, title: 3 ..., the hell?

He inhales, speaking himself motivation. With a shuddering exhale he knocks at the sturdy door, a joyful rhythm. Pretty ironic considering his current situation.

He opens the door and walks in confidently, no clue how he pulls that off. His anxiousness is on a very new and extraordinarily high level. His hand hasn't stopped shaking since he visited his father, a good few hours back in the day.

Gil sits at his desk and shoots a scolding look in his direction. "You know, Bright, a knock only makes sense if you wait for the other side to invite you in." He grumbles. Malcolm's eyes stare at him, more precisely through him. "Yeah, sure." He agrees although he doesn't remember one word of what his mentor just said.

"Listen, Gil, I need you to put me with detective Garcia and Smith." He reveals promptly, plummeting down on the chair opposite Gil's desk.

The lieutenant doesn't look pleased, at the matter to say. He scowls unsatisfied, studying Malcolm with a look he can't really identify. If he had to give it a guess he would say a ' _Why-are-you-like-this_ '-look.

"Bright, I don't think you should get involved with your family's case." He admits honestly. Malcolm is too close, his judgment can easily be clouded, and Gil isn't eager to throw him into a completely new team in that state of mind.

"Why?" Malcolm snaps accidentally. "We closed the murder case, JT collected the statement by the way." He mentions dorkily, pointing with his thumb to the bullpen. He totally forgot that JT asked him a favor to deliver the news if he was heading to Gil's office anyway. His mind was too occupied with his family's case.

"You're too close, Bright, you know exactly I can't let you work on this."

Malcolm draws a pout, glaring to the side for a good counterargument. He hasn't lost hope he will find himself working the case tomorrow alongside the two detectives. "I'll just be consulting. I'm close to this, you're right, that's why I'm their best help." He figures finally.

Gil groans into his palm when he pinches the bridge of his nose, a clear sign that he is slowly getting lulled in by Malcolm's attempts. "Please kid, don't start like this again."

Bright leans forward on his knees. "Ainsley is keeping something from us, something that could be relevant for the investigation. She won't tell the detectives. But she'll tell me." He explains urgently, his stern expression slowly evolving into big and sad puppy eyes. "Please Gil, let me help."

Gil doesn't answer immediately, instead he reverts his gaze outside and scratches his goatee in a calming manner. He shoots a glimpse at Malcolm, instantly dodging his desperate puppy eyes. Malcolm is certain for a moment he can't win this battle.

"Go home, Bright." He sighs eventually, cringing when he's exposed to an utterly destroyed profiler. He shakes his head, probably disappointed by himself. "Tomorrow you can tail detective Garcia and Smith." He relents, Malcolm's saddened expression turning instantly into a chipper one. "But only if you get some rest." Gil sets his condition, one index pointing up to the ceiling.

Malcolm jumps up in childish excitement. "Yes! Thanks, Gil! I'll give it my best shot, I promise!" He calls motivated and leaves the office with a decent jump in his walk. He immediately heads to the elevator, knowing Gil will trace his steps and expect him to leave the precinct. He doesn't want to test Gil's patience, and that is the only thing consoling the lieutenant. He shakes his head with a loud and long-stretched sigh, relocating his attention back to his work.

**x**

It's impossible to fool himself. Malcolm knows he doesn't fit in with the new team. Detective Maria Garcia, 33 years old, already doesn't like him. She is a very superstitious woman and extremely fastidious. All her moves are organized and planned, and as far as she is concerned Malcolm is the first and biggest obstacle in it. No doubt she is smart, for a regular detective that is. Bright doesn't consult to foil their investigation, he wants to help and quicken the process. It's his family after all that's being targeted.

Unfortunately, she fails to understand, fails to realize that Malcolm worked nearly a decade for the FBI. She doesn't treasure his advice, immediately throws it into the nearest trash can, unwillingly reminding him of one of his earlier colleagues.

Detective David Smith is nice, although he can't deceive Malcolm with his goody-two-shoes charade. He knows they slander behind his back equally. He knows Smith doesn't value his ideas as much as Garcia. They both look down on him, praying he would disappear from their lives.

In a way, Malcolm answered their prayers. They were discussing their further actions in the break room and he was practically disagreeing with all of their suggestions. To be fair, so did they. But he expected at least the benefit of the doubt, considering he was a consultant usually assisting major crimes.

They set off, chasing a ridiculous lead. Malcolm declined their polite offer to ride alongside, their sigh of relief couldn't have been more obvious. Instead, he was currently on his way to Ainsley's apartment. He was truly disappointed when he visited his mother yesterday to find out his sister already returned home.

So he had to stick up with his mother, in her concerned edition which is pretty much the usual only far worse and drunk. With interrogating Ainsley he sought to get back at her, at least a little.

"Is it here?" The driver grumbles, spying over his shoulder to his passenger. Malcolm's gaze wanders through the area before he nods eagerly. "Yes, thank you." He confirms and offers his payment. He steps out, squinting against the tight sunlight beaming through a narrow opening between dark clouds. The driver wastes no second to accelerate away. Malcolm dodges the splash of the puddle at the last second. He glares offended at the direction of the leaving driver, knowing he'll see him in one of his plenty mirrors.

He lets it drop, that man probably had a bad day just like him. He walks towards the building, a little bit unsure in his steps. Ainsley and Malcolm share a close bond, they understand each other better than with their mother. It's just, usually they meet outside, taking a stroll together and talking. They rarely visit each other at their own places. That's normally covered with their forced visits to mother.

He pushes the button for the elevator and the doors open instantly. He startles, backing away to make place for the leaving family in extravagant clothes and sunglasses. Neither the woman nor her children spare him a glance or at least a confirmation they are aware of his existence. He frowns at them, shaking his head and slipping into the tight space before the doors close.

His lung tightens, a cord tightly entangling around his organ. He's fidgeting nervously, teetering back and forth. His eyes glare daggers into the door, fixating on one imaginary point.

The door opens with an innocent little _Bing_ , and Malcolm escapes the tight space as soon as possible. His breath is coming short and shallow, almost like he absolved a marathon. Ainsley's apartment is pretty high up, but he suspects he would be less out of breath if he would've taken the stairs. Why he forces himself to fight his claustrophobia, he doesn't know the answer. He dreams of a day where he can enter a narrow room, like an elevator, without fearing the doors will never open again. Because, what are the chances they won't?

He leaves the elevator and traumas behind to knock at Ainsley's door. The door opens instantly, a furious woman glaring at him in surprise.

"How'd you know I was home?" Ainsley questions before anything else, reluctant to let him in.

Malcolm clears his throat nervously, fidgeting from one foot to another. "Would you be mad if I told you I profiled you?" He asks with one raised eyebrow.

Ainsley furrows her eyebrows, glaring venomously at him. " _Very_." She snarls.

"Fine, I called your colleagues and they told me where to find you."

"Not better!"

She groans frustrated and turns around, sulking into her living room and plummeting onto her couch. Malcolm follows her cautiously, closing the door gently and taking in her cool but modern home. "Neat." He mouths breathlessly, his gaze ending with Ainsley hugging her knees on the couch.

He sits down, casually next to her. He doesn't look at her, doesn't want to be too intrusive, but he is here. She knows it, she can't ignore it. "What do you want?" She whimpers, shrinking more into herself. Malcolm sends a glance to her side.

"The truth."

Ainsley shudders, her head turning to her window, avoiding Malcolm again. He can't stand it. "Ainsley, I think you are holding back relevant information. We solved the murder and I put myself on our case." He confesses.

Ainsley looks at him through big surprised eyes. "You did?" It's the relief speaking, the knowledge that her brother is fighting for her. For them. For their safety. Malcolm hopes it's enough to build up the needed trust, the bridge long enough to connect both siblings.

"What is going on with you, Ains?"

A moment of silence stretches between them, another period where Ainsley ignores him. He knows she's stubborn. Stubborn and ambitious, truly one of her best traits, no matter how often she keeps saying it's her hair. She could be bald and be no less astounding than she already is.

"Ainsley, we can't help if we don't know the full truth. _I_ can't help you." He pushes her further, urges her into a corner where she begins to flail desperately. The call on her phone is the saving distraction she must've prayed for.

"Yeah, I'm coming." She promises into her cell, Malcolm grumbling displeased next to her. He rushed things, overwhelmed her. A rookie mistake. One of his unmistakable flaws as a profiler. His explosive temper rarely comes in handy when talking down suspects. Probably one of the reasons most of his actions in the line of duty end with a short trip to the hospital. His success rate is the only thing that weighs down the positive review.

Ainsley ends the call and looks apologetically at Malcolm. She isn't sorry. She is relieved. Malcolm must be blind if he wouldn't recognize himself in a mirror. "I have to go. Train wreck." She elucidates laconically.

She jumps up and ushers to her bathroom, no doubt quickly changing into something more appropriate. A modern suit and some high heels.

Malcolm sighs disappointed, turning his phone in his hands and studying his own expression on the blank space. He must look awful. Dark bags under his eyes, sadness and exhaustion marking his face. He wonders when he doesn't look horrible, spent from life.

Ainsley returns, a surprised frown telling him she expected him to be gone. Unfortunately, he is as stubborn as his sister. "Do you really want to run away from it?" He questions rhetorically.

Ainsley shrugs, not bothering at all. "The report is exclusive, I really have to." That is all she answers. Malcolm snorts unamused, but what else should he have expected? Ainsley miraculously opening up and revealing all her concerns, afterward taking a hug, and eating cake while enjoying their time? Life usually isn't that merciful.

"You know where the door is. Next time we meet at yours." She jokes, forgets to insert the humor though. Malcolm nods too late, she already left her apartment and is gone.

He groans frustrated. He failed to get anything from Ainsley, but worse, he needs to go back to his new team. He misses JT and Dani. If he could return, he would. Anyway, there is no case for major crimes momentarily. And if they really need his help they'll call him. He's better off working his case, putting up with those low detectives, whatever.

He forces himself up. At some point, he has to return. They'll probably scold him for chasing another lead on his own. Or, he doesn't have to tell them, he thinks with a smug grin. After all, he was just catching up with his sister. Nothing wrong with that.

Bright really wishes he could look into her head, find out what bothers her and release her from the burdens. He really wishes he could do that, but it's impossible. He doesn't know what's killing her slowly from the inside. Malcolm feels even further away from her. He fears he will never understand, will never get a chance with her. She will drag her worries and fears until it's too late.

A _Bing_ from his phone. He hesitates, the door still in sight.

He feels far away from Ainsley. Too far to understand her.

That was seconds ago.

When he sees the unknown number, _sees_ the photo, he realizes he's closer than he's comfortable with. He understands the horrors following his sister in an instant, the itching fear nagging on his back.

He turns around sharply, almost dropping his cell. Carefully, one step after another he moves to Ainsley’s great wide window. He lays one hand on the transparent glass, knows he won't hear the end of it when she discovers the mark of his paw on her clean glass.

It doesn't matter.

What matters is the photo. The photo, taken no less than a few minutes ago. The photo showing Ainsley, hugging her knees, scared eyes glued to the floor.

And Malcolm. Sitting next to her.

He knows Ainsley's secret.

And he doesn't like it.

Not at all.


	4. 4

"What do you mean you have new leads!?"

Malcolm winces, building distance between his phone and ear, a simple reflex to protect himself from the barking voice.

"May I remind you that you are a consultant? You're not supposed to investigate on your own!" Detective Garcia snaps at him, clearly enraged. Malcolm's attitude does that to people. He quickly realizes he won't make friends with those two detectives either. "Get in line." He mutters under his breath, underlining it with a sassy snicker. They are not the first ones failing to keep him on a leash.

"What did you say?" The female detective hisses back. It’s harmless though, she's just unnerved that she couldn't make out his words.

"I wasn't investigating." Bright changes back. He doesn't want to mess up with them due to ridiculous hilarities. He has a far better plan to make them hate him. "I was merely exchanging words with the victim. How is that investigating?"

Malcolm realizes too late that he kept his real identity from them. Saying, they don't actually know he was with his sister. And suddenly, Malcolm sees clearly how they might think he was investigating. How are they supposed to know that this case is too personal to him?

"Tell me that was a joke." Garcia deadpans. Malcolm cringes, slightly regretting his insensitive approach. He should've calculated his steps better than this. For starters, popping the news that he's a victim as well seems to be a horrible idea. So he'll just go along with it.

"Okay, I admit, not my smartest idea-"

"No shit yeah?"

Malcolm shakes his head. "Anyways. We're dealing with a stalker." He reveals the news casually. It's business. It's their work. It's also a coping mechanism. He doesn't want to deal with the realization that his sister has a stalker on her heels. A stalker that, without any doubt, even knows _his_ true identity. He put himself at gunpoint, all without notice, and he doesn't like the idea that his colleagues might realize he's in danger as well. A victim.

"And you got that from talking to Whitly Jr.?" Garcia huffs. Malcolm hates the way she says it. Whitly Jr. Probably because Malcolm dislikes the name in general, so she isn't fully to blame. He might read too much into her words, laced with mockery.

"Yes, well, actually no." He stalls, remembering bitterly how miserable that conversation ran down in reality. "You see, I've seen a photo." He admits clumsily.

"Just a photo?" It's Smith, a faint voice in the background.

"Did you look into her phone without her permission?" Garcia picks from it, her question sounding like a dire threat.

Malcolm shakes his head despite being aware they won't see it over the phone. "No, I'm merely assuming he sent her photos, too. He only sent me one. When I was talking with her earlier." He elucidates calmly.

"You were in contact with the criminal?" Garcia blurts in disbelieve.

Malcolm rolls his eyes. "No, just a photo. Actually, it was pretty helpful. I detected the apartment from where he must've captured that rare snapshot." He drawls, scanning the door ahead of him.

"You did- Where is it?" Garcia babbles distressed, Malcolm hears her boots meeting with the concrete, louder than before. She is running. To her car?

"Actually, I'm right in front of it." He confirms with a proud smile. He ignores the nervous voices chattering from his phone and places his ear to the door. It's dead quiet. Stalking prey is a lustful act. To see them without their permission. Bright expects the perp to breathe loud, at least audible.

Yet here he stands, hearkening to dead silence. He doubts their stalker is still here.

"Wait for backup." Garcia demands strictly.

Malcolm's finger flies over to the red button, dismissing the call with one last warning.

"I'm going in."

"Bright no-"

**x**

He hears the shuffling of feet from miles away. They're unprofessional, noisy, and rash. On the other hand, their cover is already blown, and they need to hurry if they want to make it in time.

The two detectives burst into the naked apartment, guns up and clearing the area.

"Don't even bother. He already left." Malcolm calls over to them. He sits next to the window on the cold ground. He has a wonderful sight on the streets of New York. And a marvelous view of his sister's apartment.

Garcia tucks her weapon into her holster, her face distorted by fury as she stomps over to him. "What the hell Bright, you were supposed to wait for backup!" She barks at him. Malcolm looks at Smith, the more silent and less impulsive one of the detectives, but he surely picked his side. He shouldn't be expecting to receive any support from him.

Malcolm flashes them innocent and unknowing puppy eyes. "Why? It was already empty when I arrived." He objects.

Garcia grits her teeth, takes in sharp breaths to calm down. She gives up and turns around with a loud and frustrated groan. She doesn't want to deal with him, Malcolm is clearly satisfied with that outcome. It's a standard reaction he has seen plenty of times. It's one step towards surrender and acceptance of who he is.

"Not necessarily. He could've been here and could've hurt you." Smith speaks up, in a voice that contains traces of... worry? Now that’s new.

Malcolm is genuinely confused. He knows they don't care about him, that they hate him. There is no reason they would care for his well-being. They probably care about a report. In the end, he is merely a civilian and under their protection, it won't look good for their career if he messes up. He weirdly feels motivated to get himself horribly wounded during this case, just to enjoy the spite. Although, he probably can spare those efforts. Trouble usually comes by without him conjuring it.

He turns to the camera, neatly positioned to the window. He won't apologize for worrying them. He won't address it either. He'll just continue doing what he's good at. Work the case.

"He left his camera. The one he's been spying with on Ainsley." He elaborates. Garcia turns back towards him, swallowing down her anger. She is professional enough to revert all attention back to the case, instantly like a light switch. Malcolm respects that.

"The photos...?" Smith mumbles, inching nearer to the huge camera mounted to pedestal.

"They're all on it." Malcolm fills him in, although the detective is already looking for himself. Swiping through the photos of a young blonde woman. The photos were taken from several locations. Casually in the streets, or while leaving from the studios. He feels bile rising up his throat when Smith reaches to the photo of him and Ainsley standing outside the studio from Tasteless, next to a bright yellow poster of the show. The photo is taken from a distance and only features his side. The problem with those high-quality cameras? They can zoom in to the extreme without losing clarity.

"He abandoned his camera for a reason." Malcolm jumps up, redirecting both detective's attention to him. Before Smith can move over to the next photo, clearly featuring his full face.

"And let me guess, you know it." Garcia deadpans, already annoyed. She doesn't like his profiling, she probably never worked with someone like him before. His methods distinguish from their usual detective work, but in the end, it's his kind that is more successful. Most federal agents are profilers.

"You know me too well." He jokes with a bright smile directed towards her. She rolls her eyes, tightens her grip on her forearms, nails digging into her flesh. She is terribly close to punching him in the face.

"He positioned his camera here, obviously because it enables him to capture the best angle of Ainsley Whitly's apartment. There-" He points to a tiny hole on the side of the machine, "-is a little plug-in. He might have an adapter to transfer his photos to his cell phone, all in a matter of seconds." He looks up to both detectives, hypnotizing them, drawing them to his blank eyes. He doesn't want them to notice he powered down the camera. "The stalker is well prepared."

Garcia considers his words skeptically, biting the inside of her cheek. She opens her mouth, obviously to object. Malcolm is faster.

"Now, you might be wondering why he left the camera here for us to find." He speaks aloud, ignoring Garcia's glares. "It's possible to assume that he ended Ainsley's arc. Left the camera with all his photos to symbolize its end. Now he knows we're onto him. He's aware, stalking Ainsley Whitly? It's not going to be a piece of cake anymore."

"We should put her under police protection." Smith means. Garcia agrees. "Together with her mother and brother." She adds to his suggestion. It's now that Malcolm realizes they haven't actually seen a picture of him, or else they should've combined the two dots. They are still clueless about his identity. Sloppy police work, he must admit. He's dreading and at the same time excited to see their faces when they realize who he really is.

"I'll talk to the Whitlys." He offers innocently, slightly raising his gloved hand. Garcia scans him with a suspicious glance from head to toe. Smith gives him the benefit of the doubt, probably relieved to get rid of him so they have time to focus on their work.

"Alright." Garcia decides reluctantly. "You inform the Whitlys, but if I catch you investigating on your own again-"

"I get it, won't do it." He promises with a thumbs up and a lopsided grin. Garcia has her index still raised at him, her angry expression intensifying. She turns on her heel with a grumbling huff and storms out of the crime scene. Smith casts him a congenial smile, Malcolm doesn't care. He doesn't want his pity.

He watches them leave, his chipper expression faltering until only ruins remain. He looks sadly at the camera. He switches on the power and jumps to the next photo. He studies his own face taking in most of the space. The stalker must've been surprised to find a male companion on Ainsley's side. Malcolm also imagines he must've been surprised to find out that the third rat was supposed to be for a long-lost brother.

Malcolm wonders, how much does the stalker know about her, about them, about him? Was he present when Malcolm visited his father? Was he present when Malcolm tied himself to his bed and slept? How much did this stranger know about him?

Finally, Malcolm understands what's been wrong with Ainsley. What's been setting her on edge and why she preferred to keep it to herself. He understands everything. He wanted to know, wanted to dismantle the truth. But the truth is horrible, and he _hates_ it. He wishes to forget everything again, knowing his ignorance blessed self would immediately try to uncover the truth all over again. That's who he is.

He wants to erase the photo, but in the end knows better than to violate evidence. Instead, his thumb hovers over the power button. If he can't erase those memories he will do his damned best to suppress them.

Instead of shutting down the camera he accidentally moves over to the next picture.

It's him. Alone. Sitting on the stairs to his mother's house.

He powers down the camera and promptly leaves. He's hearing people approaching, officers clearing the crime scene, probably tagging along with the CSU. He better leaves them, lets them do their work. He has his own waiting for him at home.

Home Sweet Home.

* * *


	5. 5

"I deserve an explanation."

Ainsley Whitly, fresh from work, sits on the couch of her mother's house. She is still dressed in the suit she chose during Malcolm's visit. Her shoes though are abandoned, laying inches before the furniture she's resting on. Her legs are drawn to her, but not in a defensive manner anymore. Ainsley is furious, she has no room for fear.

"I know, and I can give you one," Malcolm explains calmly, sitting opposite from her. He understands her better than anyone. He'd be raging if he'd leave work to find himself under police protection and pushed into a police escort to mother's home.

Ainsley raises one eyebrow, challenging.

_Try me._

"We know about your stalker." He prompts, watching Ainsley's expression darkening.

"What?" Jessica gasps behind them, her hands stemmed on her waist. Malcolm totally forgot about her, and when he sees Ainsley shutting off again he regrets having said things so soon.

"Mother, can you give us five minutes?" He begs politely, a desperate look on his face. Jessica looks anything but content about the plea. Her displeasure marks all over her face, her brows furrowing in the short warning of an escalation. It dissipates surprisingly.

"Five minutes." She agrees unwillingly and turns around, her heels clattering up to her room. She closes the door with a loud noise, and then the house is quiet. Dead quiet. Malcolm isn't sure he ever experienced it that way.

He turns back to Ainsley, heaving a sorrowful sigh. "We found the photos, Ains. We saw the apartment he used to spy on you." He explains carefully. His sister always has something about her that makes her look fragile. Now she looks broken.

"Did you... see him?" She mumbles all of a sudden, a spark of hope in her sunken eyes.

The corners of his mouth sink, unwillingly, as if pulled down by a heavy burden. He hides his expression in a shake of his head. "No." He dismisses. "He was already gone by the time we arrived."

Ainsley exhales heavily. She looks exhausted with the way her shoulders slump down and she fails to maintain a distant expression. She looks vulnerable, and it makes everything even more difficult for him.

"We're not sure what he will do-" A message on his phone distracts him, he ignores it dutifully, "-but we agreed to put both of you under protection. Especially you." He explains, huffing at Ainsley's disgruntled look.

"You can't go back. We found his apartment, yet he can return."

"Why can't you just assign some officers to guard the apartment?" She snaps discontent. Malcolm snorts amused.

"Are you really that keen to have officers spying on your apartment? After everything that happened?"

Ainsley doesn't argue back, lowers her head in defeat, and bites her quivering lip. Malcolm leans down on his knees and runs his hands through his hairs. He's just as spent as her. He dearly hopes she finds some rest at her mother's house, forgets about the stalker. Malcolm isn't granted such peace. He still has to work on this case.

"Will you be staying here as well?" Ainsley speaks up, staring at him doubtingly. She has every right to do so.

Malcolm laughs at her question and shakes his head consistently. "Hell no." He snickers, sparing a glance into the direction his mother left. In case she's eavesdropping.

"Malcolm!" Ainsley pouts offended. Malcolm looks back at her. "No! I have to work a case, I'm in dire need of rest. I can't survive all of that, I need some time for myself." He protests.

And then she draws her eyes, her big puppy eyes. "Please." She begs, her golden locks making her look like an angel.

' _Interesting_ ', Malcolm thinks. They seem to have more in common than expected.

"See it as payback. I'm a bit mad I didn't find out about him from you." He shrugs coolly. Just like her he is immune to those begging eyes. It's his own weapon, he refuses to get slaughtered by it.

Ainsley sighs exasperated, rolling her eyes. "Fine." She groans. Slowly she works on a manageable and reputable posture, looking him dead in the eyes as she says, "I'm sorry."

Malcolm grins amused. "Still not staying." He snickers and Ainsley gives up in an exaggerated whine. Malcolm bursts into laughter, a weight from his shoulders disappearing, if not only for a second.

"Oh I see, you're _laughing_. Is there some joke you don't want to tell me?" His mother snaps truly offended. Malcolm sighs as the clattering noise of heels gets louder until the mighty woman stands next to him. The moment he dealt with one of them the next is already on.

"Mother-" Malcolm starts only to be sharply interrupted.

"5 minutes! I granted you that much." Jessica defends herself. She tries to gather a look from him, demands an explanation, but Malcolm just hides his face for looking at his watch.

"Actually, it's only been four." He claims in a know-it-all manner.

Jessica grants him an incredulous look, saying he can fool himself but not her. "You didn't check your watch earlier." She deadpans. Malcolm looks up with a lopsided grin, raising his hands in surrender. "You got me." He jokes, but his mother isn't in the mood for those.

She ignores him for the moment, realizing he was just stalling enough time to distract her from Ainsley. The young woman is observing mother and son bickering at each other with amusement.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jessica destroys the peaceful little shelter the siblings had created for each other. Malcolm lowers his head in defeat, leaving Ainsley to her fate. He can't help her anymore.

Ainsley's eyes wander through the living room, searching for a good answer because silencing won't work with her mother. "I... didn't know." She mumbles, uncertainty quivering in her voice. You don't have to be a profiler to know that it was a blunt lie.

Jessica stomps her foot, both adults glancing at her with distraught faces. "What is going on with the two of you? When have you turned so despicable!"

"Mom." Ainsley hisses sharply, attracting Jessica's full attention. Malcolm falls back, leaving the two women to sort out that matter on their own. "I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want to worry you." She admits bravely, noticing from the corner of her eyes how her brother stands up. Jessica immediately claims the seat, a perfect place to glare at Ainsley.

"Oh really?" She hums unconvinced, studying her with those cold and never fully approving eyes. Malcolm knows them too well, has seen them plenty of times, most of them since the moment she caught him snooping around in Dad's room. He abandons his former plans to assist Ainsley with his presence. He can't help here, and if he'd be in her position he'd prefer for Ainsley to back off as well.

"Yeah. Whenever you get worried you're..." Ainsley rings for the right words, Jessica raising her eyebrows to _dare_ her say the word.

"Unbearable!"

"Ha! Unbearable! So I'm the monster for worrying for my children, is that what you're saying?"

"No, mother-"

"Sure, why don't you just go to your father, the serial killer! I bet you share the same opinion-"

"It's too much mom! You're too much for me to handle when you get all that agitated. I'm already on edge, I don't need you to make it worse-"

"Make it worse, hu?"

Malcolm sighs. Even after leaving, he can't tune out the noises. He mesmerizes the similar conversations he's lead with her. All of them are horribly stubborn. Everyone has their reasons. He understands his mother's heart feelings, he better understands Ainsley's anxiety. What Ainsley's trying to tell her is that their mother is too loud, hasty, and impulsive. It's unnerving, too much. Both children would have less problem if Jessica would react cooler upon opening up to their fears and concerns. They don't want Jessica to make a scene.

Unfortunately, that's who Jessica is. It will kill her personality to suppress her boiling temper in escalating moments. It's the unavoidable disaster that keeps spiraling because none of them will ever change. They will always have these problems of communication. Fight fire with fire, hu? Just like the saying it would be ineffective, addressing those communication errors would only worsen the situation. That's why they usually keep all their emotions inside of them, until one of the three volcanos erupts and activates a chain reaction. They scream, cry, (get slapped in Malcolm's case), and eventually, they apologize. It's almost tradition by now.

Malcolm remembers the message on his mobile and considers the time couldn't be more convenient to check the news. It helps him to fade down the female noises spooking somewhere in the back of his head, snapping at each other like chihuahuas.

He frowns, tilts his head at the display. Unlike expected the message didn't emerge from detective Garcia or Smith. Sadly neither Dani, JT, nor Edrisa. Not even Gil. There simply is no one else in his life to send him a message, if you ignore those two women in the living room who are too engrossed in their little fight.

It's an unknown number, and before Malcolm can acknowledge the piercing warning bells shrilling in his ears he taps the news field. It escorts him in a matter of milliseconds to the short chat room, now containing two pictures in total. He almost drops his phone upon seeing the photo.

It's featuring him, strapping himself to the bed in his loft. In his home.

His vision blurs, a nasty tinnitus screeching into his ears. His world tilts and spins, the imaginary room expanding and tightening.

_You don't look so good, son..._

The distant voice of his father is the only thing he distinguishes in this mess. Like a light in the dark. Shining brightly like a beacon, solid like a rock. Guiding him, protecting him.

Or luring him, deceiving him. Like a vicious lanternfish.

_Little advice on the side? Maybe try to **breathe** -_

Malcolm inhales a big gulp of air, the room spiraling back into normalcy with each breath. His father's words echo in his mind, slowly fading into eternity. To a place where they will never leave. His father never leaves his mind. It's comforting in a weird way. It's not good.

He's back in the hallway of his mother's house. He is alone, his mobile tightly clamped in his heavily shaking hand. The display already blacked out. How long was he out? How long was he trapped in his mind, suffering a panic attack?

Long enough for Ainsley and Jessica to calm down. It's safe to say that he can return. He tucks his mobile into the pocket of his suit and strolls back to the main room. He leans against the door frame as he trains his eyes on the two women, a soft smile warming his heart.

"I'll always be there, you know?" Jessica promises, her hand around Ainsley's knee, gently stroking it. Ainsley is smiling relieved, if his mind isn't playing any tricks on him he might even say she has a little wet in her eyes.

Then she notices him, and he knows he can't stay back any longer. Jessica follows Ainsley's stare towards Malcolm. He pushes himself away and trudges to them, slightly resting on the armrest next to his mother.

"So, you sorted everything out?" He assures himself. Both women are oddly quiet, only nodding with a huge smile. Malcolm's genuinely interested in what he missed out on, but he isn't regretting his decision to give them space. Malcolm always sticks his nose where he shouldn't. But sometimes, even he knows his restrictions.

"That's good." He mutters softly, barely audible. They hear him anyway, that's all that matters. He's glad that at least his family managed to find peace. True, they'll be under constant police control, will never retrieve their independence as long as that freak is running around. And he is. He didn't disappear. As far as Malcolm's concerned, he's just getting started. The photo was just a warning.

"Actually, I think I have good news." Ainsley breaches into the silence, Jessica and Malcolm equally showing their undying attention. "I doubt he'll bother me again." His sister says, distracted while searching for something on her phone.

She seems to find what she's been seeking.

"He blocked my number." She says, holding up her mobile as proof. Malcolm distinctly captures a glimpse of the previous chat room before the stranger decided to dump on her. The last picture he sent her was outside the studios of Tasteless. It's the photo where they're both standing and waiting for a cab. After that, there is just blank space.

"That's good, isn't it, darling?" Jessica looks up at him for his confirmation, trusting his opinion. After all, he is the profiler, the consultant working for the police. He sees the short moment her uncertain joy transforms into certain worry.

"Yes, that's very good." Malcolm presses out before Jessica can address whatever she seems to have noticed. "But the police protection stays anyway. It's a precaution." He claims. Ainsley doesn't fight it anymore. She accepts it sulkily, for which Malcolm is grateful. He doubts he has enough energy left to persuade them all over again.

"Maybe you should stay as well?" Jessica offers, the scowl on her face still prominent. It's a familiar question to Malcolm, only dressed in layers of silk and jewelry to deceive his ears. He hears the ' _Are you alright_ ' clearer than anything else.

He shakes his head. "No. I have work to do." He explains, steady and calm, so they will understand. Or rather accept his decline. "Those detectives are screwed without me." He jokes exaggerated, but he feels more honest about it than expected. Something tells him that this case is going to lead him again into the darker parts of his forgotten secrets. After all, the stalker is after the name, more than that after the family that carries it. Whitly.

"I'm gonna go, it's getting late." He decides and pushes himself up. Jessica follows rapidly.

"Let Adolpho bring you home." She orders. Malcolm makes sure to roll his eyes before he turns around. "I don't need an escort, mother." He retorts but his opinion rashes past Jessica into one neglected corner.

"Don't be ridiculous. I won't let you drive in a stranger's car, not in times like these." She insists, a little bit too ignorant to be acknowledged as caring.

"Big cities always have strong criminal tendencies. I've been driving in cabs since forever." He objects, his expression faltering when he realizes it's not a good thing to say for his general happiness.

Luckily, his mother ignores his slip. "Don't come at me playing tough. There could be a bounty on your head as well. Try to be careful if you're insisting to deal with things alone."

"Alright fine." He surrenders testily. "I'll drive home with Adolpho. Happy?"

Jessica smiles victoriously, correcting the ends of his dress shirt around his neck. "Very." She hums.

Malcolm leaves her and strives on his coat. He's halfway out of the door when he feels a strong grip on his wrist. It's not his mother anymore, this much he realizes before his breathing skyrockets and he freezes in his place.

"Malcolm," Ainsley says, "I meant to tell you that I lost my key to mother's house. I fear the stalker has it."

Relief spreads through his body, that is until Ainsley delivers the bad news. The stalker has a key, he can practically enter this house without any troubles, without getting noticed until it's too late and he invaded the mansion.

"I assume you might want to know it." Ainsley clears her throat, nervously filling the silence since he doesn't. Malcolm snaps out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, thanks for telling. It is important." He croaks with a raspy throat he didn't know he had. They might wanna enforce the officers guarding the house, especially position two in front of the door. Malcolm is aware this will most likely prevent the stalker from even trying to enter the house. That's his goal. He doesn't want his mother and sister to be acting as bait. He wants to protect them and lure the perp away from them. He is confident they can find him without endangering his family.

He thanks Ainsley again and moves to the slick black limousine. He doesn't enter until he's sure Ainsley disappears safely inside the house. He opens the door and greets Adolpho politely. The chauffeur is already informed, it's not the first time he's escorting Malcolm. They promptly settle into silence, which Malcolm doesn't mind.

He pulls out his phone and unlocks it. Momentarily, he's greeted with the picture of himself, taken without his consent nor knowledge. He switches to the phone menu and Garcia is listed as the last call he made. He clicks her name and lifts the phone to his ear.

"Detective Garcia." The woman grumbles from the other side, although Malcolm is pretty sure she doesn't know it's him. She wouldn't invest any efforts to save his name. She knows Malcolm is usually with major crimes and hopes he will return as soon as this case is closed.

"Um, hey, it's Bright," he introduces himself nervously, his palms sweating for no reason. He hears her stifled groan, ignores it delicately.

"Just tell me, did you inform the Whitlys?" She asks, and Malcolm bets she doesn't believe one bit that he actually behaved.

"Yes." He answers truthfully. He senses the raise of her eyebrow.

"Just checking, but are you currently doing anything stupid?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes but has a hard time suppressing a laugh. Garcia pretty much reminds him of a mixture of JT and Dani. He misses those two, probably a reason which makes it so hard for him to work with her. Also a reason though why he prefers her over softy Smith.

"I'm on my way home. It's getting late, I figured I could call it a day." He explains and is greeted by silence.

"Garcia?" He checks worried.

"O-kay..." She stutters eventually. Her tone isn't angry as usual, this time it's pure confusion. "That's weird, but I'll guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt."

Malcolm snorts. "Cool." He states offended but quickly returns to the main reason of his call. "Anyway, I was able to exchange a few words with both Whitlys and they agreed to cooperate without issues. They're staying at the mansion and under police protection." He confirms.

"Both? What about the son?" The question pops up, Malcolm acts as if he didn't hear her.

"Ainsley Whitly is missing her key to her mother's house. She suspects the stalker has it, it disappeared mysteriously from her set of keys."

Garcia slowly takes in the information before forming her opinion. "That's not good. We could bring them into a safe house." She suggests earnestly. Malcolm is astounded by the reaction.

"No need. We simply enforce the police protection, put some more officers around the house, also mind the tunnels."

"What tunnels?"

Malcolm loses himself in a long "Aaaahh"

"Another case, son was kidnapped by a serial killer and trapped under the house, entrance available through some secret tunnels." He explains succinctly. He ignores Garcia's comments about how weird this family is. He agrees wholeheartedly.

"You see, I'm not sure he's informed about those tunnels, but just in case we need some officers there. The perp could enter from outside and end up in the house without anyone noticing."

"You've been there before?" She notices.

Malcolm bites his lip and gazes outside of the window. Mostly he only sees his own reflection in the glass. "I was assigned to the case." He answers, which is near enough to the truth.

"Maybe it's better if we relocate them into a safe house, Bright."

Malcolm snorts. "No, believe me, if we position enough officers the stalker won't fancy any tries at all. He's not that interested to put his freedom at risk for them." He objects, and she would know that if she would listen to his profile. "Also, Ms. Whitly is one stubborn woman. She refused to leave her house when there was a serial killer on the loose so now she won't either."

Garcia sighs on the other end. "Alright, I'll trust your judgment." She surrenders. Bright is genuinely surprised. This isn't like her at all. Did they find anything that made her see similarities with his profile? Or did she finally accept that he's capable and only begging to help?

Whatever it is, Bright has not much time to ponder on it. Alphonso stopped the car and is waiting for him to leave. He mouths a thank you to the front and steps out, straight walking to his door.

"Listen, I need to end now. See you tomorrow." He decides because he already suspects that Garcia will return back to the missing son. That's the least he wants to discuss now. If they must find out it'd better be not over the phone.

He enters his dark apartment, Sunshine greeting him with a peaceful chirp. He smiles at her as he closes the door, ensuring that it's truly locked for the night. He flicks on the lights and wanders towards her, opens the cage to stick his hand in. "I missed you." He cooes softly. The little bird jumps onto his thumb and lets herself escort out of her shelter. She doesn't fly away immediately, rests in his hand as his index ruffles her little feathers on her head.

"Come." He urges her. Reluctantly she stretches her wings and leaps off, flying onto one of his shelves and observing his movements.

Malcolm relieves himself of his coat, at the same time having the urge to get rid of the suit as well. He slips into comfortable sweatpants (his mother would burn to the ground _if_ she would ever see him in those) and a dark shirt-jacket combo.

He trudges to his kitchen and opens the fridge, shocked to see that he has actually some stuff in it. A surge of motivation takes over him and he wants to do something productive, or something normal. He looks at the clock, five pm. He pulls out some ingredients and decides to cook something for a change.

He turns around to the sound of flapping feathers. The little parakeet lands above him on the fridge, studying him interested. It isn't often Malcolm cooks because he normally doesn't eat much. No wonder his little companion is so confused.

"What?" He snorts, moving to his countertop to start on the preparation. "I'm trying to be normal." He defends himself and opens the bag of noodles. Mac and cheese, a recipe that is relatively fast, easy, and delicious. Additionally, he can eat the rest tomorrow, so he has practically taken care of it for two days.

The preparation doesn't take long, and he chatters freely with Sunshine. She doesn't leave his side, inches closer to him until she's clawed to his wrist. He lets her be and tries to be more careful while cooking. He wants a vegetarian meal.

He shoos Sunshine to his shoulder when he puts the meal into the oven, the warm light embracing his meal. He is weirdly proud. What for other people is normalcy is a rarity for him.

He shoots a glance at Sunshine on his shoulder. "Should we make a dessert-" Images of a dead rat flash through his mind. A chirp pulls him back to reality. "-too?" He ends confused, his voice quivering with sadness.

"Alright, scratch that. Let's just watch a movie in the meantime, shall we?" He smiles comfortingly. He trudges to the couch while setting up a timer for his food in the oven. He settles down and grabs the remote. Uninterested he keeps zapping through all the different channels, eventually settling on a documentary about ancient Egypt. It's actually pretty interesting, so when his timer sets off he carries his plate of Mac and Cheese to the living room. Sunshine scoots closer, climbing down his arm while he's engrossed with the film and chewing. She picks multiple times at a small noodle until Malcolm notices her thievery.

"Sunshine, no!" He splutters, too late. She manages a firm grip on the noodle and attempts an escape on the aerial route. She doesn't come far, the noodle is quite heavy for her small body.

Malcolm sets down his plate on the couch table. "Why are you like this?" He mumbles under his breath, but really he's kind of amused by the idea his bird stole his food and failed at the escape.

Sunshine chirps offended at the noodle on the ground, desperately trying to pick it up again. Malcolm crouches down and picks it up. He throws it away, snickering at Sunshine's loud chirps, which he would interpret as outrageous ones.

Since he's on his way he grabs a hand full of Sunshine's food, realizing it's oddly quiet. Except for the man on the TV. He returns to the living room, catching Sunshine back on his food.

"Sunshine no!" He scolds and rushes to his couch. The parakeet flaps her wings and creates distance between herself and Malcolm. "Not again," Malcolm complains and eyes his food doubtingly. Sunshine notices the corn in his hand and flies to his palm.

Malcolm turns his head at her, the corners of his mouth threatening to form a smile. "And how am I supposed to eat with one hand?" He blurts out, a smile winning over. Sunshine doesn't bother, keeps munching the corns in her little peak. Malcolm snorts amused and returns to his meal. Somehow he manages to eat, despite losing one hand to his bird.

The rest of the evening he spends equally relaxing, drinking a warm cup of tea alongside some cookies and cuddling as much as possible with a parakeet. When it's late he returns her to the cage without any inconveniences. He disappears into the bathroom, makes himself ready for bed.

He stops in front of his bed, hesitates. The photo clearly proves he has eyes here on Malcolm. He doesn't enjoy the idea of being watched in his sleep. He slowly comes to regrets he didn't tell his colleagues about the new interest of the stalker. Although that would include telling them his real identity and would only get him trapped in his mother's house with Ainsley.

No, he can manage. So he sits down on the edge of his bed, straps the cuffs around his wrists, and reluctantly lowers down on his back. He doesn't feel relaxed anymore. With sleep comes nightmares. Nothing in which he finds peace, the one thing his mind craves for.

He stares at his ceiling, eyes torn open until they burn. He feels watched, but that can be his mind playing tricks on him. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just like with Ainsley the stalker could lose interest in him. Malcolm doubts it, but it is still a possibility to acknowledge. And if that helps his mind find sleep he will force himself to believe it.

Until he slips away, unbeknownst that sleep actually got the better of him. As usual, he finds a few hours of solid rest.

Until the nightmares come.

They approach him, sneak up to him with the stealth of a snake.

_Son..._

_We should go hunting..._

Malcolm drifts in and off, his father's words making no sense to him.

_Just you and me..._

He blinks, finding himself in the basement for a split second. Enough to get a glimpse of the photos his father made of his victims. Little trophies that worked as evidence against him in the end. All thanks to Malcolm.

_And nature..._

The basement is gone, a strong breeze biting through his jacket into his skin. Little stings burning on his exposed cheeks. His finger, bare fingers, he doesn't feel them anymore. Doesn't feel the knife in his hands.

_Cold-blooded nature..._

He feels big hands tightening around his smaller ones, pushing his palm against the handle of the blade. Guiding them down, until the tip of the knife presses on something, something soft?

_Come on..._

A jacket. He recognizes a jacket under the blade. It slits effortlessly through the fabric, movements produced by the pair of hands trapping his. A bigger body, behind him.

He can't move.

_Come on, son, you got this..._

Malcolm starts to fight the hold, wiggles in the grip, but his efforts are in vain. He is held into place and he can't fight it. He can't fight it, the jacket is gone where is the jacket? There's only bare skin, and, and the knife, _his_ knife, no.

_You're doing great, my boy..._

He begins to wince under his trashes, shudders at the voice sizzling to his ear. First tears slip down. He chokes panicked, he can't breathe when the metal touches the skin, and pushes further... and then, then, then there's blood!

_Make daddy proud..._

"No!!"

The shrill screech invades the room, eventually subsiding in rattled and rapid breaths, then and now interrupted by choked sobs.

He inhales deeply,

and exhales slowly.

He's got this. He can calm down again. He's dealt with nightmares since he can remember. Although he has to admit, this one's new.

His hand reaches up to his cheek. It's wet and sticky. He actually cried. The finger leaves a wet trace on his skin. He frowns confused. His _hand_... is wet?

Not only his hand. Now he feels it, the soaked bed sheet under him. His pants sticking oddly to his legs. His first guess would be he wet himself during his nightmare. But that would barely provide him with an explanation as to why his stomach is drenched as well. Not to mention the weird little weight pressing on his upper body.

He dreads to push away his blanket and daring a look. This isn't normal, this isn't plausible. It makes no sense, why would there- what's happening here?

Oh.

It must be a nightmare in a nightmare. Okay, doesn't occur too often, but not impossible. It is the only explanation why Malcolm is drenched in water.

Provided it is water.

Of course it is, what else should it be? Whatever his mind is doing, it's playing tricks on him. And Malcolm tells himself he won't fall for it.

He pushes away the blanket, his phone jumping into life at the same time. Lightening the room up in a weak blue light.

Enough to see the blood.

Enough to identify the organs.

Enough to hear the scream.

It's him, he's screaming he notices. Something else he notices?

This isn't a dream.

This is the cold- _blooded_ reality.

* * *


	6. 6

The moment his phone rings, Gil knows he won't get to sleep anymore. It's not uncommon in his line of work to get called in the middle of the night. Another murder, and that just after a few days. He had prayed for a bigger break than that.

They're back on their own. His consultant won't be joining the case, he's occupied with another one.

They managed before, they'll manage just fine.

With a grumble, he rolls from his back onto his stomach and crawls to his nightstand. He doesn't bother switching the light on. He grabs his phone and retracts his arm. The letters are a little bit blurred, but eventually he manages to decipher before accepting the call.

Malcolm.

His heart drops to his pants, cold sweat pearls forming on his temple. This isn't good. It's not the first time Malcolm calls him deep in the night, but it's been a good while ago. Whenever Malcolm calls late, he's usually pretty desperate. He learned to deal with his problems perfectly on his own, he hates to bother the people around him.

And yet there is this cry for help, screaming at Gil in big letters. He wastes no second to accept the call, pressing his phone against the side of his head with the words, "Kid, what's wrong?"

He is worrying to death without having to hear Malcolm's weak attempts at breathing. His loud choked sobs and panicked flailing. "Gil, help!" He whimpers between ragged breaths.

Gil is wide awake and already putting on some clothes. He fixates the phone between his shoulder and cheek, speaking soothing words to keep the kid on the phone. "Malcolm, hey, you're okay. I'm coming right away, you hear me?" He almost stumbles upon hearing Malcolm's broken voice.

"I- I _killed_ her!"

He needs a moment, needs a moment to register the words. The aggressive tug of leather jumps into his ear and he finally understands. Malcolm is still in bed. It was a nightmare.

"Gil!" He screeches desperately, reminding the man to keep going. No time to wait, his kid needs him.

"You didn't kill anybody, Malcolm. It was a nightmare." He explains calmly, despite knowing that Malcolm will never believe him. He's too delusional for that. "I'm gonna be there in a second, alright?"

_Thud._

And just like that Malcolm's voice is gone. Gil is shocked for a moment, but the call hasn't ended. Did he drop the phone? He still hears helpless whimpers.

"Malcolm!" Gil tries but receives no reaction. "Malcolm- crap!" He curses and jumps into his car. Swiftly he turns on the sirens and lets the engine growl into life. He rushes out of his place, the route to Malcolm's home perfectly memorized. 5 minutes, if he ignores all stoplights and rules. You can bet he will.

Everyone grants him passage when they are alerted to his siren. He accelerates through the corridor the other drivers built for him. 5 damned minutes are still too long, Malcolm needs him _now._

He arrives in a new record time. Shuts his car and runs to the porch. He lifts the vase to Malcolm's emergency key. It's not there, of course it isn't. But he doesn't need it. The door was left open.

He dashes inside, immediately greeted by Sunshine's distressed chirps. She bangs against the cage, trying to escape it. Gil has to ignore her upon seeing his kid.

He's pushed against the head of his bed, clamming his arms around his knees, making himself as small as possible. The weirdest thing is, he's actually sitting in a pool of blood.

Gil rushes towards him, stumbling and falling down on one knee. "Malcolm! Oh gosh, is that yours?" He splutters distressed, giving the kid an all-round check.

Except for the rough bruises on his wrists he appears to be unharmed. Physically. Mentally he's not even present. His blue eyes stare into nothing, his body subconsciously rocking forth and back. Blood is smeared on his cheek, around his wrists in frantic attempts to get rid of the cuffs. He didn't succeed. That's the reason he's still on the bed, forced to sit in blood, and... is that a heart? And, that… a liver- _Organs_?

Gil pulls out his knife and bends over the unresponsive man. He cuts one of the strings and then the last one. Malcolm doesn't move, stays frozen in one place. Gil places one hand on his back while the other one grabs under his knees. He lifts the body up with a grunt and brings some distance between them and the bed, this cursed bed.

"Hey kid, I got you." Gil soothes, cradling Malcolm's head in his arms. The boy cries, whimpers out his fear. He's breaking, and that's bad. That's all Gil knows. He glances back to the bed, acting as a living barrier to prevent Malcolm from seeing the mess anymore. Irrelevant, he already sat in it, fought to get out of it like a wild but chained animal. No matter what, Gil was too late. Failed him. What’s worse? He knows he could've never done anything about it, could he?

Of course, it's the case. The violator had already harmed the family once. He could do it again, and he did it.

Gil allowed it. Allowed Malcolm to work his own case, allowed him a gap to escape the police protection. It _is_ his fault, and if he would have taken the right choices Malcolm might be sleeping at his mother's house. Safe.

He flips out his phone and calls the first detective on this case.

"What?" The tired voice grumbles frustrated.

"Garcia, there has been another attack on the Whitlys." He reveals without any warning. He hears the creaking of a bed. The detective is awake and up.

"What?" She slurs confused.

"It's about the son," He explains briefly, irritated when he witnesses an enraged "God fucking dammit!"

Malcolm's breathing in his arms calms down, his cries silence. Gil has no time left. "I'll send you the address. Call Smith. I'm busy." He ends the call promptly and sends her a pin of his location. By that time Malcolm is back under the living, looking at him with recognition in his eyes.

"Gil?" He murmurs surprised.

Gil sighs tiredly, ruffles Malcolm's messy hair while he ignores the smears of blood on his face. "Yeah, I'm here, kiddo." He affirms, not ready to let go of him yet. Although the ground is torturing his joints and he dearly wishes to stand up and stretch his legs. He stays on the ground, allowing Malcolm to lean halfway across his lap as he nuzzles his hair.

"I don't know what happened, Gil. It was just a bad dream." Malcolm explains after a long period of silence which consoled both men.

Gil isn't surprised to hear that. Of course Malcolm's brain has troubles distinguishing both dream and reality by now. If Gil could, he would tell Malcolm it was a dream indeed. Would tell him nothing bad happened and that everything's fine.

But he can't. Not with Malcolm fully covered in blood. Not with the police lights reaching the house.

"I'm afraid it was more than that." He croaks the truth, his heart shattering when Malcolm widens his eyes in shocking revelation. Before his head falls down to see for himself, Gil catches him, places his hands on both cheeks and forces him to look at him. Look at him and forget the blood, calm his breathing, and forget.

"Don't look down, kid. Look at me, okay?" He soothes tenderly. Malcolm's breaths are coming fast and shallow, quickening when he hears people violating his door, invading his home against his consent. "Just look at me, you're gonna be alright." Gil whispers, and it helps.

Heavy stomps meet with the floor, a mass of people following the lead.

"Goddammit, I told Bright to check _all_ Whitlys and he-" Garcia stops dead in her tracks when she arrives at the scene. Her eyes open wide, staring down at Gil and Malcolm in confusion. Her colleague Smith behind her matches the expression. Only the CSU ignore everything and rush to examine the real crime scene.

"What's going on?" She stutters shocked, eyes flashing towards Gil and back to Bright.

Gil sighs in defeat, knowing they'll demand an answer and will find out sooner or later. "Garcia, Smith." He welcomes them in the loft. "Meet Malcolm Bright." He shoots a worried glance at his kid who is observing the detectives with big pale eyes. "Born Malcolm Whitly."

Smith's jaw drops, Garcia blinks several times, standing dumbfounded where they entered. She is speechless and she has no response to all of that. She did not expect to walk into _that_.

"I have soo many questions." Smith breathes out, blinking perplexed at the pair. Gil narrows his eyes at them.

"Well, save them for later. You've got work to do." He urges them strictly, and it works perfectly, because he is their boss.

"Come, let's get you cleaned." He mumbles carefully to Malcolm, steadying him under his arms and pulling him up onto his shaky legs.

"Ah, lieutenant-"

"You'll get the clothes. Now go." He cuts Garcia off and turns around. Slowly he leads half-carries Malcolm to his bathroom and closes the door, disconnecting them from the ongoing investigation in the apartment.

The silence is immediate. As if they just entered another world. His inner thoughts demand to be processed right away, but Gil uses all of his efforts to push them away. He leads Malcolm to sit on the toilet. He is shaking. Once placed down that is the only movement his body exhibits.

Gil trusts him not to move and opens the drawers one after another until he returns with a few towels. He holds one under the water until it's soaked through and through. During the process, he shoots glances at Malcolm to assure himself nothing has changed. Neither his bloodstained appearance nor his distant behavior.

He heads back to Malcolm, giving him a little warning before he touches the kid's cheek with the cold wet towel. He flinches, nevertheless.

His face is cleaned quickly and leaves Gil with the task of fetching the boy new clothes. He spots a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a shirt under a jacket on the ground. Probably the things Malcolm wore before going to bed. It'll do.

"Come on, kid, we need to get you dressed." Gil urges him calmly. One moment Malcolm is there, fully attentive, listening, and noticing what's going on. But without a warning he drifts away, blacks out and is gone, wherever his mind is. That's the case right now, Malcolm is completely unresponsive. Gil frees him of his shirt, Malcolm offering zero cooperation. His limbs act like they died on him.

Gil picks up the towel and cleans the spots on his chest where the blood oozed through. It isn't much, but it shouldn't be there in the first place, so every drop is too much.

It's a fight to get Malcolm into a shirt, but once he survived the ordeal, Malcolm resurfaces. He gets that spooked puppy dog look and surveys the place in shock. Gil stops, giving him the time to get familiarized with the situation.

"You back?" He asks with one raised eyebrow when Malcolm casts him a look. He nods dryly. Gil gets the message. He grabs the mug Malcolm uses to brush his teeth and fills it with water. He hands it over to Malcolm, whose hands are trembling brutally. Just in case Gil leaves a supporting hand on the bottom of the glass as Malcolm lifts it to his lips and drowns everything in one go.

"What happened?" Malcolm wonders, not for the first time this evening and probably not the last time.

Gil shrugs with a warm smile. "Not much."

Malcolm believes him, for a whole second. Then it hits him from all on his own. His head is down before Gil can react and his breathing is skyrocketing immediately.

"Heey, kid." Gil rushes forward. He grabs Malcolm by his shoulders and rubs them soothingly. "Do you wanna hear a cool story?" He offers. The attempt spikes Malcolm's interest barely, but it scratches it, sticks a little anchor to it, that’s why he continues.

"Can you believe JT once went to court because of something _super_ stupid?"

Malcolm tilts his head, curiosity fully activated.

Gil grins. "He drove over a purple purse."

Malcolm frowns confused. "Property damage?" He asks and Gil nods vigorously.

"Yeah, exactly. But the thing is, the purse was laying on the street. Directly in front of his car. Can you step up?" Gil prompts in the middle of his story. He supports Malcolm, holds him in place while he works on unbuttoning his sleeping pants.

"And JT had a police operation, so he jumped into the car, switched on his sirens and crack! Drove right over the purse." He continues his story. When Malcolm’s eyes subconsciously wander down Gil catches his chin. "Don't look down, I've got this. Trust me."

Malcolm doesn't answer. Doesn't budge. He trusts Gil.

"So the woman mesmerizes his license plate number and sues him!"

Malcolm faintly snickers. "Wasn't it her own fault for leaving her bag unattended?"

Gil shrugs, casually wiping away the blood on Malcolm's legs. "She saw it differently. She really dragged him into court for that." He explains, a light laugh escaping at the memory.

"Can you imagine, JT sitting there on the bench, completely pissed, and trying to behave himself?" He says, giving Malcolm something to think while Gil lifts his feet into the new pair of sweatpants.

"He probably said a lot of things he shouldn't have." Malcolm muses.

Gil snorts, "That you can bet on. Almost insulted the judge."

"Did he get in trouble?" Malcolm prompts, genuine worry on his face. He's a good kid.

"No. Of course not. We bailed him out, supported him. That's what friends do." Gil ends, having successfully managed to get Malcolm into clean clothes without letting him fall back into his dark abyss.

Malcolm smiles gratefully, tears sparkling in his eyes. "Thank you, Gil." He murmurs quietly. Gil can read between the lines, knows Malcolm is thanking him for much more than helping him change clothes.

He lifts his hand, caresses the kid's pale cheek, a soft smile surfacing on his lips.

"Always." He promises.

He flashes a glance at the door. The noises passing the barrier and crawling through the gap between door and ground, invading this room as well.

"Come on," He says and looks back at Malcolm. "Let's drive home." He suggests, wraps an arm over Malcolm's shoulder and leads him outside.

Together they ignore everyone spooking in the kid’s shelter. They head straight for the car. Malcolm puts on the seatbelt, and Gil is proud. He is already looking forward to arriving back at his apartment, dropping on the couch, and cradling the kid in his arms. Just the two of them, two men like father and son, trying to survive this night.

Together.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really wanted to get this out, I doubt I'll manage anything at all this weekend...  
> Hope you enjoyed some Papa Gil taking care of our traumatized Malcolm!


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back!  
> Okay, I've kinda been neglecting Tasteless because of Let's play a game (for a solid week now?), and I'm sorry. In my defense, I was also working on a last chapter for this story (and working for real). I'm not quite done yet, at least I know how many chapters there will be (but I'm not telling you yet).  
> Enough talking, enjoy!

"No way, no _fucking_ way!"

Malcolm's pace slowly dies down. His signature smile, he arduously built up by motivating his reflection in the mirror, falters back into uncertainty. He isn't sure what he expected when he begged Gil like a desperate child to take him with him to the precinct. He sure as hell should've expected his temporary boss to react this way, so he wonders: Why is he so disappointed?

"You can't work this case, man." Smith appears behind Garcia, a troubled expression on his face. He is anything like Garcia, the fierce woman who is blocking the doorway like a security guard, almost snarling at him aggressively.

Malcolm glowers at them, but he has been informed in the past that this look is more adorable than anything else. "Oh why, because I'm a Whitly?"

Garcia loses her strict expression, exchanges a scowling look with her partner before shrugging at Bright. "Well, yeah. That is exactly why." She agrees, way too innocently.

Malcolm groans. "The second you know my real identity you label me as a killer, so classic." He murmurs bitterly. It isn't new to him, still very unsettling and unpleasant. He expected better of them, but then again, even the FBI was able to stoop that low.

"What?" Smith splutters with a nervous laugh. "You're a Whitly, just like the rest of them you are a _victim_." He emphasizes sternly and catches Malcolm off guard.

"Oh?"

"Oh? That's all you have to say? _Oh_?" Garcia snaps, crossing her arms before her chest in a defying manner. Malcolm scratches the back of his head, he's embarrassed.

"I mean, I'm sorry for accusing you falsely, this never happened before." He apologizes earnestly, because if Malcolm Bright knows anything it's to stand up for his mistakes whenever he can. Which isn't often, luckily. In his line of work he can't allow himself to produce mistakes, most of the time they carry the potential to end extremely lethal for innocents.

"I can't bring myself to blame anyone else right now, you _lied_ to us!" Garcia retorts at him, obviously still very mad. Unfortunately for them, Malcolm already fully recovered from being sorry and he won't return to that state any soon.

"I didn't lie, I just kept the information about my origin for myself." He counters back, likewise crossing his arms in front of his chest. The position unnerves Garcia even more as she’s seeing a mirror before her eyes. "In any case, it's kinda your own fault for not figuring out any sooner. I mean, you are supposed to be Gil's best detectives here in the precinct."

"That's it!" Garcia snaps, breaking her stance and pointing a finger at Malcolm. "You come into my case and then have the nerve to insult me and my partner? How dare you?" She gnarls, attempting one step at him to push him back. She has to stop very near to Malcolm because the profiler doesn't flinch. He seems unbothered to her outburst, not backing away. Barking dogs don't bite.

"You do realize my goal isn't to thwart your success?" Malcolm speaks up with self-control he didn't know he had. "I want to protect my family. I'd do anything for them."

"Then back off."

The demand is harsh and coldblooded. Garcia's words are solemn and severe. She means it. Malcolm feels the energy rush out of his body.

"But that I cannot do." He whispers weakly.

Garcia glares at him for a second, until she huffs and turns around. "Well you have to, so deal with it. Technically speaking you shouldn't even be here." She answers and stalks back to their billboard. Upon seeing the improvements, Malcolm can feel bile rising up his throat.

"I was considering for a moment there, but how can I leave when you're on the completely wrong lead?" He squeaks horrified and heads to the board, ignoring their shouts as he studies it with despair.

"Didn't you hear her? You're not on the case!" Smith stomps towards him, making the mistake to grab Malcolm's arm. Bright rips away his limb in an instant, distrust spreading all over his face. He imagines recognizing regret in Smith's eyes.

"Money?" He gasps aghast. "You've been investigating both crime scenes and money is your closest bet?"

The detectives don't answer him, they rather exchange looks all over again, oh they love doing that, don't they? It's the most obvious possibility to malign someone without using words.

"This clearly isn't about money! This is about revenge. It is personal, it has death and pain written all over it! The dead rats, the blood, and the discarded organs, it's reeking of violence. His motive is vengeance!" Bright rambles passionately.

Garcia sighs behind his back, so Malcolm spares her a look.

"Vengeance you say. In what way?" She plays along, but not without rolling her eyes.

"Yeah," Smith adjoins, "did you never notice how freakingly rich your family is?"

Malcolm lifts his hand, massaging the bridge of his nose. By this point he wonders if they are actively playing this dumb, just to torture him. Or do they want to be extra correct and avoid possible discrimination by not mentioning it?

"Dr. Martin Whitly, the Surgeon. Ever heard of him before?" He talks back, changing his voice like he's communicating with toddlers instead of detectives.

Garcia grits her teeth yet remains her cool. "Obviously. But that is over twenty years ago."

Malcolm shakes his head, a bitter smile reaching his face. "Real grief never disappears." He croaks with a quivering voice. "You may not have caught up like me, but the Whitlys have been attacked before. Twenty years later. A victim saw my sister interviewing my father and he completely lost it. Tortured my family, almost forced them to kill each other. That was merely months ago." Malcolm reveals, and judging by their expression they were not aware of it. They worked hard and did their research. Just not in the right field. They underestimate the troubles a Whitly goes through, multiple times in one year alone.

"That's tough." Smith reacts barely.

Malcolm snorts bitterly. "Oh is it? Now, everything was starting to get fine. I managed to get better along with my baggage, my sister was promoted to moderate her first show. And then he drops by, turns our life up and down. I know I should be used to it by now, but it still hurts."

"No one should be used to something like that." Smith breaches in. He is very kind, and Malcolm is starting to see that he could actually mean it. That he actually feels real concern for his well-being and all. The realization is immediately clouded by suspicions again and Malcolm rebuilds his walls around them.

"It's his fault. This is all connected to the Surgeon and I'm going to prove it." He decides motivated, stomping out of the room in big steps. He hears feet shuffling behind him.

"Bright, wait-" Garcia calls. Malcolm is in the hallway when he turns around to face her.

He squeaks surprised at the hand on his back, pushing him away from the room and guiding him back to the bullpen.

"JT?" Malcolm presses out, not having expected, out of all people, to see him.

He provides him with a short answer. "Boss asked me to have a lookout for you."

Malcolm raises his eyebrows, a challenging smirk on his lips. "Now did he?" He quips amused.

JT freezes, sending Malcolm almost hurling forward. He barely catches himself before he can go down flat on his nose.

"Dude, Gil's worried sick. We heard what's going on with you and your fam."

Malcolm lowers his head, escaping JT's judgmental frown. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty bad, isn't it?" He sighs.

JT manages a smile, laying a big hand on Bright's shoulder. "For your normal weirdness, I'd give it a seven, so it's still manageable."

Malcolm bursts into laughter, accompanying JT willingly the rest to their desks. He is quickly informed that Gil is currently away and asked JT and Dani to keep an eye on him. They mock him constantly that it's babysitting, but they all know how important the protection is for Bright's safety. So, they sit together instead of working since Gil isn't there to catch them. They even hide in their briefing room, Malcolm and Dani sitting on chairs while JT leans heavily on the table, one foot dangling in the air.

"Can't we just take the case to major crimes? Those detectives- oof!" Malcolm groans. "I think they do exactly the opposite of what I advise them, just to prove me they are smarter." He protests.

Dani squints at him. "Two days and you already made them hate you?" She snickers.

JT snorts. "Two days? Come on, I was having my bet on ten minutes." He pouts. Malcolm glares at both of them until it evolves into a wide grin.

"Actually, they disliked me the moment I stepped in, so I'm guessing you owe him some money?" He addresses Dani. She throws her head back and releases a loud groan.

"Buy us three coffee and we're square." JT offers.

Dani stands up and grabs her coat. "Fine." She huffs and exits the room, heading down the bullpen to the elevator.

Bright sighs. "But seriously, I'm worried they'll manage without me." He confesses concerned.

JT casually raises an eyebrow. "You mean like they did before your skinny ass showed up?" He states. Malcolm doesn't answer, but he wonders. Somehow they must've gained Gil's trust on their own. Worked their way up to detectives. What is setting them on edge that they have difficulties solving this case? Could it be really him who is throwing them out of their rhythm?

"You gotta put some faith in them. Trust them, Bright." JT advises.

Malcolm grimaces. "I try, but they're on a completely different page. They were thinking about money, probably going more into ransom and stuff." He complains.

"You do notice how rich your-"

"Yeah I do!" Malcolm groans, throwing his hands in the air. "But come on. You said you know what happened, then you surely must realize-"

"-That it's more personal. And violent." JT finishes with a nod. Malcolm scans him doubtingly but relaxes with the knowledge JT understands him. He feels so much more comfortable around them than with detective grumpy and detective nice.

"Gil worries that dude might act out and hurt one of you."

Bright looks at JT in surprise. "He does? I mean, it's highly assumable he will. If he is, according to my theory, taking revenge on my father, that might be inevitable." He explains.

JT sighs. "Then you also understand how important it is to keep you away from danger and under constant protection?"

Malcolm blinks at him.

JT shakes his head. "So you do not." He concludes.

"I do!" Malcolm protests frustrated. "It just sucks!"

JT laughs out loud. "Tell me about it."

"Boys, a little help here?" Dani's voice travels into the room. She waits outside the briefing room, glaring through the window with three cups restricting her hands. Before Malcolm can react JT jumps up and opens the door, enabling Dani entrance. She hands one cup to Malcolm and places the other next to him on the table for JT. She plumps down on her former seat.

"So you were talking about the case that isn't yours." She prompts, sipping her hot coffee calmly.

Malcolm cringes. "That's... exactly it." He confesses.

"Bright thinks it's because of the surgeon," JT adds to which Dani simply shrugs. "Makes sense, what other motive would fit all the prior attacks?"

Malcolm smiles at her, quietly screaming on the inside. Do the other detectives even want to solve the case or are they just playing?

"Apparently, Bright's former colleagues see that differently." JT snorts amused.

Malcolm rolls his eyes, puffing one cheek. "Can you believe they think this is about money?"

Dani raises her eyebrows. "Really?" She blurts out in surprise. Then she narrows her eyes and tilts her head as she muses. "But to be fair, Bright's family is-"

"Super rich, I get it." He interrupts annoyed. Like, he's more than just a piece of money thank you very much.

"How about we solve the case on our own?" Malcolm prompts. It's said before he could even think of the consequences. Dani and JT throw him equal mad glances.

"That is the stupidest idea you've ever come up with, and there are plenty," JT growls, his grip around the coffee tightening.

"I'm with JT," Dani confirms and nods towards her colleague. Malcolm sighs disappointed.

"Come on, think of the consequences. This isn't our case. We can get into real trouble." JT explains.

"No one will ever know." Malcolm rolls his shoulders. "Unless we'll solve the case."

"If we act on this case Gil will kill us." Dani chimes in.

"Then we'll tell our solution to Garcia and Smith. We do the thinking, they do the action. Brains and muscles, hm?"

"No." Both detectives decline strictly.

Malcolm squirms in his chair. "Come on guys. It's about my family. Wouldn't you want to protect yours as well?"

"You can't let them do their jobs, can you?" JT answers instead.

"Not if they're incompetent no!" Bright argues wildly.

"I mean," Dani sips her coffee innocently, "We could take a look at the Surgeon's old files and discuss?" She proposes cautiously. Malcolm's eyes lit up at that statement.

"No, Dani, don't leave me hanging. You're making me look like the bad parent." JT whines disappointed. "We have to stay strict."

Malcolm jumps up. "Strict is boring, let's break the rules! I'll get the files!" He exclaims excitedly and bursts out of the room.

"Bright no!" JT calls after, but the kid is already out of range. He immediately glares at Dani. "If Gil finds out, you'll take the blame." He growls.

Dani sighs heavily. "He's going crazy if he sits tight. We'll keep him occupied, he doesn't need to know." She answers softly.

JT frowns skeptically. "About the threat?"

"Gil told us not to tell him about the sum his mother has to pay."

JT keeps a lookout for Malcolm, not content with the idea. "He deserves to know that he's tailing a completely wrong lead."

"Our job is to keep him away from the case, JT. He's too close. Gil is just worried about him. He seemed genuinely concerned about what happened to him that night." Dani counters back.

"To me, he seems fine and highly motivated." JT muses.

"It's a mask. Under it he must be disturbed, no doubt. I certainly would be if I woke up from a nightmare, covered in a pool of blood and unable to escape it."

JT nods reluctantly. "I guess you're right. But I doubt your approach is any better. He literally drives back into his childhood trauma. Not a very good distraction, don't you agree?"

Before Dani can answer Bright bursts back into the room, big boxes secured in his arms. He stumbles in awkwardly, the weight beginning to take its toll on him.

"Where'd you even get them from?" JT blurts out uneasily.

Malcolm attempts to shrug, although the brown boxes in his arms hinder his tries. "I have my ways." He presses out.

With a loud thump the boxes land on the table. Dani and JT observe the scene unconvinced. Malcolm, on the other hand, is already opening them, eager to sweep through the information and filter out everything necessary. He shoots a glance at JT, then at Dani. "Come on, what are you waiting for?" He urges them.

They sweep the files for hours. Sometimes they discuss a question, form theories, and discuss them as well. In the end, they return back to reading, jumping over to the next piece of monstrosity, and working it through as well. Their actions don't lack concentration. They put the same effort into their research as they usually would. Although this case isn't theirs. And even when the lead is a complete bust. They do it for Malcolm, because solving crimes is what really cheers him up.

'Working a cold case. Keeps him distracted.' Dani writes Gil when she notices him entering the precinct and sending them worried glances. She doesn't mention they're working the Surgeon's case files, or else he'd never leave them with Malcolm alone again. He disappears into his office and lets them work.

At some point, JT falls back in his chair and huffs a long-stretched sigh of frustration. "So far, I got nothing guys." He admits tiredly. He's exhausted and getting bored from the waste of time. He rubs his eyes and moves to his temple, but it doesn't soothe his upcoming headache.

"I'm with JT. No one's really got a clean motive. And some are already dead." Dani leans back.

Malcolm lifts his index. "Don't forget the children. They are adults by now and perfectly capable of murder."

Dani crunches her teeth and glares at him. "I know." She growls.

"Face it man, they're not killers. Not that we could detect from reading old case files." JT says out loud, because at some point it needs to be said.

Bright's jaw tenses and he glares disappointed at the files. "They are lacking the certain feeling. And I don't see any inconveniences either." He admits grudgingly.

His eyes are still glued to the pictures. The pictures he found as a kid in his father's basement. Evidence that tied Martin to the murders and brought him behind bars. Martin is a smart man, he knew taking pictures of his crimes could be crucial. But if anything, he was an addict, and he even he couldn't resist treasuring some trophies of his experiences.

As a kid, Malcolm was mortified upon finding those in his journal. That's what everyone tells him. Truth to be told, Malcolm doesn't remember a lot about it. He dreamt of corpses now and then in his youth, never fully knowing where he saw it before. Those were all suppressed memories surfacing. And getting suppressed again, so one night he could be tortured all over again.

Now, after Malcolm has seen so many horrible things in his life, the photos don't disturb him. They don't lead him back to the night he found out about his father's schemes. He remembers too little about it. Sometimes he can't even get a clear image of what happened with the girl in the box. The memories are always blurry, and often erase themselves before he can fully process them.

He had hoped he would recognize something. Anything that could help him. But in the end, he probably was just like JT and Dani. He was never really present at that time. His body was there, sure, his not fully evolved mind, too. But he was just a child. A ten-year-old child.

"Alright, I'm gonna get some coffee. Want some, too?" JT slams his palms on the desk and stands up. He spares some glances at both colleagues.

"Tea." Malcolm mumbles weakly. "For me, too," Dani adds hastily before she looks worried at Malcolm. She understood JT's implication loud and clear. He only brings beverages to give Dani time to talk with Malcolm. He heads out of the room without looking back.

"Bright, you ok?" Dani speaks up as soon as they're alone.

Malcolm shrugs. "When am I?" He sighs. The fight left him. She barely witnessed him that broken.

"I understand that this must be hard for you. We can stop-"

"Hard? Dani, I was a kid. I don't remember a lot of the things I saw. I only hear people, my mom and Gil, implying how my discoveries messed with my head. But in the end, I'm just like you. Never been really there to know what actually happened." He retorts frustrated, but it's not directed at her. More at himself. He hates himself for not knowing what happened.

"How can you say that?" Dani mutters. "You saw all of that with ten years old. All of this horrible stuff with such a young mind, combined with the things your father did to you. Your hands-" She gestures to his limbs forgotten on the table, "-are _shaking_. Maybe you don't notice it, but your body has a hard time coping with those memories."

Malcolm looks down at his trembling hands. He clenches them, eventually hides them under the table when it doesn't work.

"Stop torturing yourself and take a break." She advises gently.

Malcolm nods reluctantly. "I'll... take it into consideration."

"One tea for Dani." They both startle upon hearing JT's voice. "And one tea for-" He checks the name on the cup before extending his hand to Bright. "-the crazy one."

Malcolm musters a smile at the nickname. He looks at the cup. _Crazy dude._ "What did the barista say when you told him to write that down?" Bright asks genuinely interested.

JT snorts into his coffee. "Not much. If anything he wished me good luck instead of a good day."

Dani looks at her watch on her wrist. "What day, it's practically evening already." She throws in. Malcolm widens his eyes and assures himself with a look on his own watch. "Really?"

JT stands up with a sigh. "Come on, let's clean up." He suggests. "And then we'll escort pretty boy back to Gil." He grins, cheering that their shift is finally over. Malcolm chuckles, takes a big gulp of his relatively cold tea and rushes to aid his friends.

Just when they stuff a file into the box a picture slips out and slowly glides to the ground under the table. "On it," Malcolm calls before JT curses in frustration. He crouches on his knees, scoops up the evidence, and carefully crawls back without hitting his head. He remains on the ground, staring at the photo in silence. Dani scowls at JT before she walks around the table to Malcolm.

"What you got there?" She mumbles while failing to conceal her worry. She kneels down to him, relieved when she notices it doesn't feature a crime scene. It's a family photo. Malcolm, Ainsley, Jessica, and Martin, drenched in a warm light, smiling at the camera across the table. The quality is poor, but it's enough to realize that she's never seen Malcolm this happy before.

"It's a photo. Of all of us." Malcolm mumbles emotionless, like he is still in trance processing the picture.

"It's wonderful." Dani comments, and finally Malcolm shows emotions, in the form of a sad smile. Even if they were happy at that time, Martin was a monster there as well. And those innocent times will never return. In the end, it is sadder than anything else they witnessed today.

"I think my father was cooking for us that day." Malcolm muses. "But I'm not sure. We had a cook since I can remember." He turns the photo, searching for any inscription. Sadly there is none. "My father loved nature. Camping, and hunting. Whenever he would catch a fish he would cook them himself." Malcolm finally remembers proudly. Although in the photo they can see no fish on the plate. It is blurry, but definitely looks like meat. Maybe a steak?

"Did your father also hunt mammals?" JT points out, ignoring Dani's glares. He realizes too late that they agreed not to trigger any memories by encouraging him.

At last, Malcolm shrugs. "I don't... know." He admits, a sad layer covering his voice. He doesn't like it not to remember. When easy information simply erases itself from his mind.

"But I wouldn't be surprised. The Surgeon liked to try out new things." He replies, a bitter smile replacing his sorrowful expression.

He stands up, swaying a little but catching himself on the table. JT lays a hand on his arm. "You good, bro?"

Malcolm giggles quietly. "Yeah... just a bit light-headed." He explains.

JT scrutinizes him. "You should eat more often." He comments, to which Malcolm replies with a short "Noted."

They pack up the rest and close the boxes. By that time, Malcolm is acting like a newborn deer taking its first steps on a frozen lake. He reaches out for a box, instead he grabs the air. "Huh?"

JT takes the box before Bright can fancy another try. "I'll cover that. Are you really good?" He repeats. Dani is eyeing the profiler with desperate worry.

"Are you done?" Of course Gil chooses this very moment to enter the room. He sticks his head in, no doubt coming to collect Bright to drive both home. Somehow, Malcolm managed to convince Gil not to let him stay with his mother and sister. Which is weird, since Malcolm so desperately wants to protect them, saying he should care for them. Guess the Whitlys care on another level unlike normal people.

"Yeah?" Dani gasps breathless, not taking her eyes of Malcolm. The only thing keeping him upright by now is the table. Gil doesn't fail to recognize that.

"What's going on?" He growls, dad mode fully activated. JT places down the boxes and turns around to look at Malcolm before Gil surpasses him and blocks the view. "Kid, you good?" He asks worried, grabbing Malcolm by both arms and turning him away from the table to face him. The quarter spin doesn't help his condition at all, neither the loss of his support. He squints at the man, knowing something is very wrong when he can't make out Gil's face even from the close distance. Oh, and there's two of them.

His legs buckle underneath him, and he slowly sinks down. Gil catches him before he falls splat on the ground. He gently lowers him to the floor and down on his back. "Bright?" Gil calls worried, slaps his unconscious face carefully. It only results in Malcolm's head lolling to the side.

"Call an ambulance!" Gil demands at JT, who is already on his phone and dialing. This isn't normal, Malcolm rarely faints. And Gil doubts it's the lack of food. He saw the leftovers in Malcolm's kitchen when he was in his home. And they ate breakfast together. Malcolm ate much in the last days for his standards. So what is the reason his kid is completely out and lying on the floor?

"Dani, what happened?" Gil barks, feeling slightly sorry when she flinches.

"I don't know. We were talking, drinking tea and, and then he already was giddy!" She stammers, kneeling at his head and subconsciously running her fingers through his hair.

"Tea?" Gil repeats. "Where'd you buy it?"

Dani shrugs, pointing at JT with her head. Gil turns his head just when JT lowers his phone. "EMS are coming right away." He informs them and moves to Malcolm's side. By now the precinct has mildly caught up on the trouble and a commotion is building up.

"JT! Where'd you get the tea?" Gil repeats, the urgency sounding like frustration. JT is tough, he knows not to take it personally.

"Down the street, a little wagon selling sweets and coffee." He explains shortly, the accusation catching up on him. "You think it was poisoned?"

Gil looks at Malcolm laying still on the ground. "He's already been attacked, so we can't rule it out." He mutters, observing any reaction Malcolm's body could exhibit. Bright's under a lot of medication. If he got drugged, there's no guarantee on how his body will react in combination with his own meds.

"Let's wait for the EMT and send his tea to Edrisa," Dani suggests, but she wonders why hers and JT's was alright. She catches a glimpse of the name on the cup. _Crazy dude_. An uneasy feeling settles in her stomach. A portable food wagon? Not a very convincing place to buy their beverages from. Usually, Dani never saw one before anywhere near the precinct.

"I think he stopped breathing," JT notes calmly before realizing what this means. Gil immediately panics, hovers over Malcolm's lips to feel the warm brush of air. Still there, but weak. He moves Malcolm's body to lay on the side, embarrassed he hadn't thought of it before. The kid instantly has an easier time sucking in breaths. Gil worries that won't hold out for long.

Fortunately, the EMT burst through the door this moment and rush to Malcolm, guided by several officers in the bullpen. The paramedics dash into the briefing room and push the detectives aside. JT grabs Gil before he can bare his claws. For a moment he forgets they are the needed help. They check Malcolm in a matter of seconds before they decide to load him onto a stretcher and transfer him into the hospital.

Suddenly, all three of them realize, they didn't expect the situation as bad as it turned out to be.

"Go with him," Dani speaks up, fierce eyes staring into Gil's. "He'll need you when he wakes up." Gil smiles gratefully. _When_ he wakes up. Because he will.

"Call me if you need help." He orders, to which both JT and Dani give their promises. Now, Gil can leave the precinct in good conscience, knowing it’s in their trustful hands.

He follows the paramedics, taking away his kid. He ignores everyone staring at him. Ignores Garcia and Smith running towards the scene. In his mind, only Malcolm exists. And that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too soon


	8. 8

**_Daddy!_ **

_Joyful laughter surrounds the warm light. It's a young girl, squeaking excitingly in next to him. He turns his head to the left, a little too fast, the already blurry surroundings spinning due to his rash action. He is rewarded with the sight of an angel, golden locks are hugging her round face. A blue little dress is adorably hugging her waist._

**_Daddy, I missed you!_ **

_She runs towards him, leaps off, and his heart almost plummets into his pants._

**_Oh darling, Daddy missed you, too!_ **

_A male, a deeper voice vibrates in his ears. The man to his right catches the little girl, cradles her in his arms, and together they spin in circles._

_He watches the pair with confusion, scowling at them. They surely are familiar, but he is too dazed to make heads or tails of what is going on right now._

_A violent breeze surges over his head, sending him stumbling and bending over. He wheezes desperately to prevent bile from crawling up his throat._

_One moment he’s sitting, eyes on a fully prepared table. Looking into three unrecognizable faces._

_Then he is back, apparently at the doorway, the man holding the little girl in his arms. A strong clattering of heels penetrates his sensitive ears, each noise sending little needles into his eyeballs. He squints, presses the balls of his hand against his temple._

_The woman, hazelnut brown hair falling down her shoulders, kisses the man. She has a bright smile tugging on her lips, revealing white teeth._

**_Glad to have you two back,_ **

_He hears her mumbling, but he is suddenly back at the table, looking down at his plate filled to the edges. He doesn't recognize the food, too blurry, still he feels bile rushing up his throat. He groans, a weak call for help._

_A cold wind stings into his back. He opens his eyes, finding himself back at the door. The strange man with the girl in his arms kissing back the woman, mumbling something he can't understand._

_He blinks, and suddenly the very tall woman is looking him straight in the eyes. They share the same height, she must be crouching down. Why is he so short?_

_A soft hand caresses his cheek. The touch is familiar, he leans into it, exhales in relief. His eyes flutter open, the image before his eyes gaining on clarity. He gets used to the vision, manages a more detailed look at the scene. The woman before him is Jessica Whitly, his mother._

_Curiously he chances a look to his side, motivated by the feeling of safety. He feels brave, ready to face anything. He recognizes his sister despite his vision constantly zooming in and out. He squints, fights against the nausea._

_He catches the last pair of eyes as the lights slowly die out. Darkness baths them in a tight but eternal space. His breathing paces up, the noise he makes screeching into his ears. He sees his father, scanning him with those sharp eyes. Menacingly, a feral smile decorating his lips._

**_How was your trip?_ **

_He plunges into icy dry water, his senses going off-road. He realizes he's choking when air pushes into his lungs. It would be enough if he wouldn't be running. On uneven ground, roots and stones, his ankles protesting with each step, bending over like they shouldn't._

**_Did you like it?_ **

_He is at the table when he opens his eyes. Where was he a moment ago, he wonders. He looks down, recognizing the plate. The food is clearer now. Potatoes, next to a green-_

* * *

* * *

_Forest. He's running in the forest, a knife pressed tightly in his small hand, little fingers curling desperately around the handle._

* * *

* * *

_-a salad. Potatoes and a salad. Then there's something next to it. Something he can't put his finger on, no matter how hard he thinks. He rings over the answer, the name to the weird big pile of dark pink. Under the touch, it's soft. Tender. It tries to escape into itself when his knife pierces into the-_

* * *

* * *

_Body. Underneath him. A pale skin tone, quickly replaced by a red line running down the curve of the_

* * *

* * *

_-Meat. The food is Potatoes, Salad, and Steak. What else?_

**_It was lovely, wasn't it, Malcolm?_ **

_Right, that's him. His name. Malcolm. Of course he knows that. He's just so confused. And tired. One moment he's here at the table. The other one he's running in the cold night, through the dark forest. If he isn't pressing a knife into-_

_Their front door crashes against the wall, multiple times as the strong wind forces it to stay open. He turns around, acknowledges the door. Outside he sees the silhouettes of trees. It doesn't make sense, he remembers living in the city since forever._

_A thunder strikes the earth, screeching like a woman's cry. Because there she stands. He sees her clearly, clearer than his own family. The dark bags hiding under her eyes. The greasy hair falling over her round face. She is coated in dirt, drenched to the bone and dripping onto their parquet. The black water is mixed with blood, scratching at her cut wounds and running down her naked body._

_Laughter surprises him. He turns around, looking at his family. He's opening and closing his mouth, asking them why they can't see her. The woman standing at their doorway with murderous yet terribly desperate and frightened eyes._

_He looks back, assuring himself she's still there, looking at him. Mouthing words he can't decipher._

**_Daddy cooked very hard. Eat up, Malcolm._ **

**_Don't..._ **

_The woman at the doorway counters back instantly at his father._

_He flinches, is surprised to hear her words with sound. His body is frozen, refuses to move one bit. Unlike the rest of his family._

_His mother cuts a piece of the juicy meat, he doesn't look at her but vividly sees her motions. He also sees what it does to the ghost outside. A new cut draws on her arms. She gasps mutely, exhaustion spanning over her face. Her knees buckle and she leans against the doorframe, one step into their house._

_Jessica guides the fork to her mouth, the meat disappearing behind her red lips and a delightful hum. At the same time the woman loses part of her flesh. He widens his eyes in shock._

_Ainsley, his little baby sister, pierces her own fork into the prepared bits of flesh, already cut down for her. The woman groans, clutches her stomach in pain. Ainsley swallows the meat before he can warn her. The woman's hand falls down lifelessly, revealing a hole in her stomach._

**_Is it good?_ **

_Martin's voice booms through the room. The woman cries in agonizing pain._

**_Delicious!_ **

_Jessica chirps on the contrary. Ainsley nods vigorously, in strong childish agreement._

**_What is it?_ **

_His mother asks. He confuses the question for concern towards his well-being. They must notice something is wrong with his behavior. But she doesn't. She smiles at Martin, wondering to what animal the meat once belonged._

_To her, he wants to scream and cry. He can't._

_Martin smiles gently, but he fails to spot the difference between a wolf baring his teeth. Not a loving father, a predator._

**_Tell them, Malcolm. You helped me hunt, didn't you?_ **

_The man answers, proud swinging by._

_He freezes, wants to throw up everything in his empty stomach. No, he didn't, no!_

**_Why...?_ **

_Incoherent gurgling emerges from behind, but he can't see her. He can't turn around, can't face the guilt. She is still there. Her presence is there, he can feel it. She will never leave._

**_A deer!_ **

_Martin resolves before Jessica becomes suspicious. Before the weird behavior of her son settles into her mind. This is real. The ghost isn't, but this_ _is real._

_And Martin knows it. He knows that Malcolm remembers. That the gaslighting effects begin to wear off. That the education isn't working as it should and that the paper house will crash!_

**_Jessica, pour our boy a little drink, looks a bit thirsty to me._ **

_He decides, without blinking once. Without his gentle smile faltering. He doesn't lose his mask even once._

_The drink settles with a burning sensation into his stomach, dissolving his inner organs into dust. The power in his muscles dissipates too fast to realize. Yet too slow to end this torture. The edges of his vision turn blurry again, closing in on him. His head falls down, lolls lifelessly to the side before his upper body falls down. Despite the fast reaction he lands slowly on the table like he's falling asleep._

**_Our boy must be tired from all the hunting._ **

_The male voice vibrates in his ears painfully. He can't block him out, can't shake him away. Even the soft female chuckle pains him indescribably._

_He begins to float, arms and legs dragging him down, but his stomach is safely pressed against something hard and cold. And yet so human._

**_I'll get him to bed._ **

_The dark voice too near to his ear growls. The colors play with him, the lights swirling with the darkness. Everything is blurry and unrecognizable. A cold wind stings into his hot flushed cheeks. His head lolls to the side, and she is still here. Clear and sharp, he can still see her every detail. She is missing bits of flesh all over her body._

_It is nothing compared to the big hole in her stomach._

_She doesn't acknowledge him anymore. Doesn't hear his muted pleads of sorry and help. She proceeds to lean over the chair, his chair, he's been sitting on moments ago. She stares down, disappointed, at his plate. One potato, little leftovers of green salad._

_And a half-eaten steak._

His eyes flutter open in an instant.

He blinks multiple times, but his surroundings remain the same. Cold, lifeless, and colorless. A distant beeping noise ponders at his hearing nerves, he desperately thrives to ignore it. It takes longer for him to notice the thin blanket draped over his body, the comfy mattress spoiling his back.

He frowns, confusion fully settling in. Life returns into his arms and he doesn't waste a second to stem his upper body up. The wide range of his sight gets instantly bigger, allowing him to conclude he is, yet again, in the hospital. How did he get here? Most probably in a bus. The real question must be _why_ he's here?

He notices the sleeping form of Gil, uncomfortably cramped in a small chair. He decides that man had enough sleep when he clears his throat loud enough to wake him up.

Slowly the man opens his eyes, coughs at how raspy his throat is, followed by a quick sweep of his tongue over his lips. He must recognize his surrounding, his head shoots up immediately.

"You're awake." He croaks, a dry realization.

Malcolm nods reluctantly. "Yeah, I'm awake." He is surprised to find his own voice as broken as Gil's. How long had he been out? Again, why? What was the reason for this hangover-like moment?

"Gil," He sighs, rubbing his sore face with his right hand. He traces down to the IV attached to the inside of his elbow. "What happened?"

Gil observes his calm stress reaction before deciding to answer. "You got drugged, that's what happened." He snorts, anything but happy about their current predicament.

The stalker, right.

"Another attack, hu?" Malcolm hums. He must sound too relaxed for Gil's taste, the wrinkles on his forehead increasing with his statement.

"And that inside the precinct. That asshole's really overstepping all boundaries."

The memories flood back to him. He remembers working the case with Dani’s and JT's help. They were on the verge of giving up, cleaning the room, ... And then Malcolm picked up the picture. The old photo of the whole Whitly family at a meal. Flashbacks of his dream return, marking the equal signs. Malcolm wasn't dreaming. He was remembering.

"What was in the tea?" Malcolm asks sharply, his chin trapped between his fingers. He doesn't spare Gil a look, he only needs one answer and he'll be back combing his brain for answers.

"Ketamine." Gil answers after a while. Malcolm hears the worry leaking through, pushes it aside though.

Ketamine, it makes sense. Shuts him down quickly. A few sips and he's away. Could be tricky though, must've reacted with some meds in his blood, the only thing making sense why he's in the hospital attached to a heart monitor and an IV. Possible he stopped breathing or suffered a seizure. Maybe, though he can't really tell without any memories.

_Pour our boy a drink._

What Malcolm can tell, is that the Ketamine could have triggered memories of his own to resurface, memories that were being suppressed by the same drug. Combined with the picture he recently saw it was the perfect assembly to transport him back in time. To a forgotten memory, to a crime scene no one was aware it was one.

The photo of the happy family was considered harmless in between all of the horrible evidence the police discovered. They might have shrugged it off as a normal picture, something Martin liked to remember, unrelated to his crimes. Malcolm isn't so sure about that anymore. He is perfectly aware that his hallucination played a big role in deceiving his eyes, but apart from that, the memories were true. After all, the best lie is the nearest sticking to the truth. He reminds himself that Martin _never_ confessed to his murders. He swallowed down the 23 he was accused of, never commenting on it once in all those years.

Now, Malcolm knows Martin loves to experiment. He used his hobby to test out theories he couldn't do under normal circumstances, not even as a surgeon. Cutting out a heart or lungs, organs, to see and watch how long the 'patient' lives. Martin is curious by nature, Malcolm can imagine he once must've wondered what taste a human being has.

Also, Malcolm is aware of a 24th victim. Watkins confirmed it, the girl in the box was real. What if... what if there was a 25th one, too?

"I need to see my father." Malcolm prompts, sliding to the side of his bed and attempting to pull out the IV on his own. Gil interferes just in time.

"No, you really don't." He decides and redirects Malcolm's hand away from his arm. "You need to recover-"

"I don't need to recover! I need to catch a criminal." He disagrees but hesitates to fight Gil off who is putting his feet back on the mattress. That's what he tells himself, instead of accepting that he simply lacks the power to push Gil away. Maybe he really needs some time to recover, although that can wait. Catching a perp is definitely more urgent than that.

"You need to relax. Trust detective Garcia and Smith. They've got your back."

Malcolm snorts frustrated. "They've got the wrong lead, Gil. They're not going to get far like this."

Gil cringes, moments away from saying something that could crush Malcolm. He knows he deserves the truth, but right now? He's weak and battered from both attacks. He can't expect him to deal with the bad news of his mother being in huge troubles.

"They know what they are doing." Gil decides to say. One day Malcolm will find out. Today is not the day.

"This case is tied to the Surgeon, Gil. It has absolutely nothing to do with money, it's about vengeance," He argues passionately. "You have to see that, too! The cadavers, the blood, the organs- what kind of a garbage detective buys that this is about money?!"

Gil bites the inside of his cheek. It takes a lot out of him not to defend his position. He knows Malcolm is smart, but _he_ is the lieutenant out of both of them. Malcolm is just a bratty child knowing half of the truth and believing something utterly wrong. He doesn't know better, it's not really his fault. They decided to keep the full truth from him. Combined with Malcolm's impulse to solve everything, it's no wonder he works with the material he has to build up an explanation for all the things happening to him and his family.

"Don't you realize that it's a distraction?"

Gil freezes on spot, looking at Malcolm with wide-opened eyes. "What do you mean?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes. "The blackmail, at my mother. It's a distraction."

For a moment, a long moment, he just blinks at Malcolm, unable to form a simple reply. He is taken aback. He doesn't understand the world anymore.

"Come on, Gil. You don't believe you could've lied to me forever. I'm practically a walking lie detector."

"So you knew, the whole time," Gil bites back frustrated. At least he had been right about one thing. Today wouldn't be the day Malcolm would find out. That day was already yesterday.

"Dani and JT were pretty obvious about it. And also, how long do they think it takes for me to fetch a few files?" He mocks coolly, confessing he actually eavesdropped on them.

Gil sighs and falls back on his chair. He rubs his temple with a quiet groan. His hand drops and he glares at Malcolm. "Yeah, you gotta stop doing that. First you lie to Garcia about your relation to the case and then _this_?"

Malcolm squints at him. "Ironic for you to say. _You_ were the ones lying to me. I simply refused to speak out loud the obvious and now _I'm_ the liar?" He snaps insulted.

"No- I mean, uh... this is complicated." Gil rambles, at a loss for words.

"It really isn't. _You_ are being fooled, and _I_ need to talk to my father." Malcolm concludes innocently, but he's still mad at him for all the lies. It shines through his biting tone.

"You aren't going to leave my eyes from now on." He decides loudly as he points at Malcolm. He means every word of it. He will be Malcolm's personal police protection and he won't let him out of sight even for one minute. Not even Dani or JT will get to babysit him anymore, just looking where it brought them.

Malcolm groans frustrated. "Are you serious? Do you even want to solve this case?"

"Enough!" He barks his final words. He crosses his arms before his chest, proceeding to glare at the wall. He doesn't have the luxury of storming out, not after he swore to keep a constant eye over Malcolm. The young man opens his mouth, but after Gil dares him with a threatening look to say one goddamn word, he closes it. He slumps back against the head of his bed, likewise, crosses his arms with a pout and glares out of the window. Away from Gil.

It's his way to deal with the huge betrayal he's exposed to. It's a little childish, a bit stupid. But for now? It'll work just fine.

* * *


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHA I have a new story idea!! I finished writing Tasteless and IMMEDIATELY came up with a new plot and I'm sooo excited! The thing is: How am I going to manage working on three projects and college? If you have an idea please let me know, I want to make this new story happen.  
> Anyways, for now let's just concentrate on Tasteless because shit's heating up real quick, you'll see...

When Gil said he'd keep a close eye on Malcolm he wasn't joking.

Malcolm didn’t have a damn minute for himself anymore. The lieutenant didn’t leave the hospital room, not even once. When Malcolm signed himself out Gil was breathing down his neck. Even when Malcolm was using the bathroom he was being reminded of the constant presence of a certain man blocking the door.

It could've been so great, no really, it had the potential to be a wonderful time for both Malcolm and Gil. What is better than spending a few days with your role model, all these domestic feelings of having someone to cuddle against, eat a pizza and watch a movie. Or to talk to someone while dining. It was like finally being able to experience the father-son experience Malcolm craved to feel.

If it weren't for their little banter right at the beginning. Both were still pretty mad at each other, and that didn't disappear. The glares remained during lunch, or silently watching a movie sitting on the opposite ends of the couch.

Now, Malcolm kind of felt sorry for the whole thing. It was in his blood, he found himself almost always at fault in his life, and especially for the people he cared about he could apologize for billions of times if that would keep them from leaving him.

So he tried to be the mature one, tried to look at the situation from the other man's eyes. He clearly could see Gil was just trying to protect him. But then, why did he lie to him? After all those years supporting him with the truth no matter what, he just had to come up and lie to him? To top that he completely threw him under the bus. Holding Malcolm responsible for his actions, geez. Malcolm knows very well he might've been a dick to some people the past few days, especially the whole misunderstanding with Garcia and Smith, but he refuses to listen from someone who has purposely _lied_ to him!

Long story short? Malcolm did not apologize. He was fully convinced this time _he_ was the one to deserve an honest apology ASAP. Not that Gil would listen to him. Whenever the arguments would grow over his head he would simply summon his bossy father-like voice and silence Malcolm.

Bright wasn't having that anymore, so he stopped talking to Gil completely, giving him the silent treatment. Although by now, he wasn't sure if this was even considered a punishment anymore. They are at Gil's office. Malcolm is supposed to sit on the couch and do nothing all day long, while Gil is engrossed in his work. He sure does seem relieved that Malcolm is keeping his mouth shut and lets him do his paperwork.

For a few minutes, okay, but after half an hour being grounded in Gil's office? Unimaginable _boring_. Inhuman. Malcolm needs to do something, or he will go insane. Especially now since he can’t escape Gil's merciless watch and work his god damn case.

If they would just _listen_ to him he could explain to them how important his father's intel is on this. There are only two people who happened to be on that night firsthand. Apparently one of them is a 30-year-old man who can't remember a lot from the adventures he experienced as a 10-year-old child. Apart from being gaslighted all the time.

And the other man is, of course, the responsible serial killer. And if anyone would know the victims, it'd probably be him. Probably.

Malcolm lets himself fall back with a weepy groan, far too annoyed to relax into the cushy couch. Energy is pounding through his every fiber, and it’s burning his nerves having to spend it still. He dares a look at his watch. He’s been sitting here for almost four hours! This is insane! Malcolm can't remember a time he ever sat still for such a long period of time.

He can’t do this anymore. He won’t survive this another second- He needs to get out of this, right now! Think, Bright, _think_!

"We should take a break." He squeaks. He has no shame that he interrupted his strike of silence. Screw stubbornness, he can't take this anymore. He knew he shouldn't have looked at his watch, else he easily could've managed a few minutes more.

"Not right now," Gil responds without taking his eyes from the display of his work computer. "Kinda busy."

Yeah, Malcolm can see that, but he's passed far beyond the point of actually caring. "This is cruel, Gil. I need a break." He dislikes the plead in his voice, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Gil raises one eyebrow, still not looking at him. "Really? You're not even doing anything."

Malcolm shoots him a glare. "Exactly!"

And then there's silence again. After a minute or so, Malcolm realizes Gil isn't going to answer him. He wrapped up the conversation and is back at work. Unbelievable. Just, unbelievable.

Gil is out of question. He's no help, Malcolm bets he's enjoying the little punishment on the inside. Oh, but be careful. He who laughs last laughs longest! Malcolm has a plan to escape this misery, and then he'll make Gil eat his words.

Okay. So what's the plan?

Malcolm huffs frustrated, perfectly aware the perfect plan won't come on its own. He'll need to figure it out. He turns around so he's facing the window and the whole precinct behind it. He'll need to get out of this room, after that he'll be as good as free. Now, even with Gil perfectly distracted by his work, Malcolm will never manage to sneak out undetected. Gil isn't blind nor deaf.

He'll need an excuse. A good one. Nothing like going to the bathroom. Gil will follow him, no doubt on that. He'll need something that assures Gil he's in safe hands. That'll buy him some time to do... stuff.

His eyes flash to the woman standing up from her desk. Dani stretches her back. Then she leaves and disappears out of eyesight.

Okay. He has a plan. Albeit a risky plan that can quickly backfire, but it's better than nothing and definitely worth a try.

He looks at his watch. Almost twelve o'clock. Well well well, if this isn't convenient.

"Gil," He chirps up, "I'm hungry."

He recognizes the frown on his face, slightly hidden in the blue light of his computer display. "You brought food with you. Just eat it." He deadpans, but there is a decent tone of irritation. He is _already_ suspicious? Under this circumstance, his plan is doomed.

"Okay," He pouts, but it's still part of the act. "Dani is having a break, too." Gil, still unbothered. "Can I go to her?"

This innocent question brings Gil's head to perk up. His eyes wander outside, scan Dani's place for her body. "She is in the break room." Malcolm helpfully contributes.

"I'm not letting you off my watch," Gil states strictly, throwing a suspicious glare at Malcolm. Does he suspect him, or is he just plainly irritated by him? After all, the man really wants to finish his paperwork without having Malcolm chime in all the time.

"Come on. I'll be inside the precinct, and Dani will keep a watch on me." Malcolm bribes.

"We know how good that worked out the last time," Gil murmurs bitterly.

Malcolm raises his eyebrows. "And now you're blaming Dani for what happened?"

Gil's eyes widen momentarily. "No, I never said that-" He catches Malcolm's scanning blue eyes and squints at him. "Stop profiling me."

Bright shrugs unbothered, reverting his gaze back outside to the break room. "It'll be a win-win for everybody. Just so you know."

Gil furrows his eyebrows. "As far as I'm concerned the only one happy about it will be you," He retorts.

Malcolm grins at him challengingly. "Oh really? Dani would be relieved to catch up with me. The last time we saw each other I was drugged, remember?" He raises one eyebrow. "Oh, and for me, obviously, I get to stretch those legs of mine and actually have some fun. You on the other hand are free of Bright-duty. Just imagine how efficiently you could work. For one whole hour."

Malcolm smears honey around Gil's mouth, and by the look of him he'd say it's working pretty well. He is considering the option, comparing the results he can gain and with what efforts to be needed. In the end though, it's a short "Not now," and he returns back to work. Malcolm is disappointed at the least to say.

However, nothing is lost yet. Malcolm has plenty of alternatives to get him what he wants. And one of them is without doubt his truly despicable attitude. And disturbed brain with all the weird knowledge he carries.

"Fine," He sighs in defeat, but is just getting started. "Hey Gil, did you know that it is possible to make teacakes, or even soap out of dead human bodies by boiling them?" He pops up the fact randomly. Gil ignores him but judging by his slight stress reaction he is all ears. So he continues, "It was being practiced by an Italian woman in 1939, who learned that her son was to join the Italian army. Her belief was that the only insurance for her son's safety was through sacrifices, hence the corpses."

Gil still doesn't comment, encouraging Malcolm to keep talking. "Hey, at least she distributed the soap and cakes to friends and neighbors. Isn't it like recycling a human body?" He muses, trapping his chin between his fingers. "It's quite disputable, wouldn't that refer to cannibalism as a rather good thing? I mean, instead of dumping the corpse somewhere else you get free food. For one grown man it takes about nine days to eat a young girl, did you know that?"

Malcolm is surprised Gil is still allowing him to ramble. Bright knows plenty of disturbing murder facts, after all he used to discuss those during his visits with his father. "Although, it is understandable how cannibalism has a bad image in society. Obviously, because it's murder, but also because it's extremely personal. One cannibal wrote a letter to the family of the victim where he extensively described the sweet flavor, or how tender the-"

"Alright, you got me, kid." Gil slams down his palms on the table, turning his head to glare daggers at the profiler on his couch. "You win. Skedaddle out of here, let me work in peace," He hisses. Malcolm doesn't hesitate one second. He uses the momentum and scrambles up, rushing towards the door.

"But-" Gil lifts his index. "-Promise me to stay under Dani's watch."

Malcolm bites the inside of his cheek, looking Gil dead in the eyes. "I promise," He lies.

Gil nods satisfied. Malcolm just wants to vanish, the guilt nagging on his conscience. At least now they should be even with the lies.

"Oh and kid, one thing." Malcolm turns around with an innocent hum. Gil frowns at him worried. "Don't disturb her with all those murdery facts, wouldya?"

Malcolm grins, nodding vigorously. That he can do. He walks outside, the noise of the stressed workplace being music to his ears. Escaping Gil's office is the only obstacle he needed to surpass. Being out of the office, he is as good as free.

Feeling eyes burning into his back he dutifully marches to the break room. This way the escape will be much harder, but still doable. He grabs the handle of the door and opens it with a muted _click_. He looks back to the office, catching Gil's controlling glare, checking if Malcolm really enters the break room. So he _was_ suspicious. Irritated probably, too, but he had his concerns about Malcolm's honesty.

Well, what can he say? Gil was right. He definitely isn't to be trusted.

Too late.

**x**

The door opens with an aggressive buzz. The man sees him arriving from the distance. The moment he reaches the cell door the entrance spreads wide open. He passes through, into the small cell that would surely send him on edge if he would be supposed to live in here. It would not cooperate well with his claustrophobia.

"Malcolm, my boy!" The man on the other side of the red line greets him spirited. His hands are cuffed before his body, as usual, and his whole body is attached to the wall by a belt. "I must say, I am surprised to see you here."

An unwilling smile resurfaces on Malcolm's face, he can't fight it off. "The surprise is likewise," He comments under his breath. He didn't expect his escape to go so smoothly. After the whole ride to Claremont, he didn't even receive a single call or message from Gil, which means his ruse is still intact. Gil is currently believing he is chatting with Dani in the break room.

"So, what's the matter. I haven't seen any murders recently in the news." Dr. Whitly gratefully takes the lead on the conversation. He opens his mouth and widens his eyes in excitement. "Oh! Are you coming because of personal reasons?" He guesses all giddy. After that realization, he can't stay still. He walks up and down, a slight bounce in his step. "If so, you gotta tell your sister how _amazing_ she did on her show. It was delightful, she really brings the spirit into that show, I'm so proud of her."

Malcolm sighs. "I'm not here for personal reasons, Dr. Whitly," He rejects coldly. He is satisfied to burst the man's bubble, seeing his excitement fall from his face.

"Oh," He lets out disappointed. Malcolm doesn't buy it that Martin even thought for one second this was a friendly visit just to chit-chat between father and son. After 10 years he shouldn't be that naive. Or who knows, maybe that old man is actually that desperate.

"Oh, okay. That's also fine. Then... tell me about your case, son!"

And there it is, the motivated mask sitting tightly over his face, hiding the truth. Projecting a loving and supporting father instead of the monster he is.

"Tell me about the murder!"

Malcolm smiles bitterly. "There is no murder." Confusion settles on Martin's face. "It's a stalker."

The man hesitates to answer, clears his throat before he does to stall some time. "So, no murder? What case, without murder, is so urgent that it matters to major crimes? Oh my, is it the president? Is _he_ having a stalker? Okay, I gotta admit, terrific circumstances, but what an honor-"

"It's not about the president." Malcolm cuts him off. He's getting annoyed, but his father talks non-stop like a waterfall. "And I'm not with major crimes currently."

Martin's expression turns into one of pity. Malcolm despises it. "So they dumped on you?"

"What? No, of course not!" He recoils. He doesn't want to delve further into this. The second Martin realizes Malcolm has a little fight going on with Gil, he won't hesitate to manipulate him, bend, and shape him to his own preferences.

"I volunteered my help," He explains, more composed.

Obviously, his strong mood swings don’t go unnoticed by Martin. "Oh? Then please enlighten me, son," He sizzles, his voice distant, his eyes scanning Malcolm for possible weak points. Fortunately, Bright just knows how to get the man back into focus.

"I have a stalker."

It is indeed enough to stop Martin from analyzing him. Malcolm's heart warms at the genuine worry he discovers in his father's face.

" _You_ are the victim?" He repeats with disbelief. Malcolm smiles sadly. "Yeah," He croaks weakly.

"Alright, that is truly horrible, but how can I possibly help in this?" Martin asks, despite knowing very well how he can. He just wants to avoid that road at all costs. "Wait, how are you even working your own case?" He laughs lightly as a distraction.

Malcolm tilts his head. "The details don't concern you. I just need you to answer my questions."

"I'll give it my best shot." He promises with a warm smile. It's a blunt lie.

"How many victims did you have?"

Martin's smile visibly falters under Malcolm's stern glare. Decent stress reactions surface expressed by the slight fidgeting of his finger trapped in the cuffs. His stance is rigid, frozen into place. One might overlook these obvious signs, but that one isn't Bright.

"Well, I'm not sure you really require my answer on that. Everything is in the files. You can simply google that nowadays and you'll also get the names of-"

"I don't care," Malcolm states his opinion loud and clear. "I want to hear it from you. Out of your mouth. How many innocent people did you kill, Dr. Whitly?"

The man refuses to answer. He looks down defiantly, and despite expecting the reaction, Malcolm is disappointed. "I see that question might be too hard right at the beginning. Let's move over to the next one, shall we?" He offers kindly.

"How often did you take me on Camping trips?"

Martin chuckles, his earlier demeanor completely thrown out of the window. "Oh, that was years ago. How am I supposed to know the correct number?" He dodges, but the answer is sufficient in its own ways.

"So definitely more than once. Good to know." Malcolm concludes. Only then it sinks into Martin that his answer was actually helpful. For some reason, he strives to avoid that at all costs which is disturbing in its own ways.

"Now, moving on. I have distant memories of some _experiences_ in the forest. Although everything is extremely incoherent. Would you like to fill me in on what happened there?" He asks smugly.

Martin chortles. "Well, the usual stuff, son. Enjoying nature, learning some survival skills. Nothing dangerous of course. You were a curious little boy, you wanted to see all kinds of animal traces. Or learn to carve, nothing else."

"Nothing?" Malcolm repeats, raising one eyebrow. "So, me using my knife on human bodies is just, what? What is it, Dr. Whitly? Active Imagination?"

Martin swallows visibly. "That exactly it is."

Malcolm sighs and shakes his head. He pulls out the little notes he made on the way here to register his thoughts. He wants it here to make sure he won't forget a thing. Although, he doubts that will happen at one point. He has the conversation fully played out in his mind.

"Alright, given you're so thrifty today on your answers, Dr. Whitly, how about I take the lead for a while, mh?" He offers, gripping the notebook until his knuckles shine white. Martin sees it, and he should fear him.

"The Surgeon. A serial killer who extended his job and hobbies outside of the legal area. He is curious by nature, his experiments are driven by question marks. He always wonders, what would happen? How would it feel? To answer these questions he wooed his victims with his charming attitude and used them as guinea pigs."

"Is that my profile?" Martin interrupts with sick curiosity. Malcolm ignores him, continuing as if he never said something.

"He carved out the heart of the victim, to see how long he can live without it. Or, another example, cutting out a woman's tongue."

"You wanna know why I did it?" Martin hisses frustrated. Malcolm used the examples his sister had chosen for her interview for a reason. Throwing Martin back into an experience he already dealt with.

"I know your motives, Dr. Whitly. Didn't I explain them right at the beginning?" He hums smugly. Martin grits his teeth, it's getting harder to maintain his fatherly expression towards his son.

"Now what we also know, is that the Surgeon never confessed to any of his murders. You never saw yourself guilty, never affirmed the 23 murders. That's kinda your thing, isn't it?"

Martin doesn't answer, like a criminal pledging to wait for his lawyer. The thing is, he won't get one. Either way, he has nothing to lose. He's locked away for his whole life.

"Which leaves it open. How many victims did you really have? We now know about her. The girl in the box, she was real. A 24th victim. But I'm wondering. Could it be-" He tilts his head, staring with his eerie pale eyes through the murderer. "-that there was still more than that?"

And then Martin laughs, kills the suspension. Malcolm smiles, allows that much. Let's him think all of this was a joke after all. "You are," Martin laughs, "You have some weird ideas-"

"Tell me." Malcolm's smile drops, he steps forward with a gnarl. He doesn't miss his father stepping back.

"All of these pieces of information are available to the publicity, one by one revealed by mother and Ainsley. Someone, a victim with an unresolved murder, could connect the dots and tie the murder to you." He explains sharply.

The effect has worn off though, and his father isn't intimated by him anymore. He stands his ground while he studies the smaller man with a menacing glare. "What are you getting at?" He mutters, a threatening tone swinging by.

Malcolm licks his dry lips, scrounges up all the courage he has. He'll need it. To speak out loud the thing he refuses to believe. But he has to. If he wants this to end, he is _forced_ to.

"Are you a cannibal, Dr. Whitly?"

The question remains unanswered, floating in the room for a good while. Every second is torture, but on the other hand, Malcolm dreads to find out the truth. Maybe because a part of him already knows the answer, without having Martin to confirm it.

At last, he smiles. A world crushes for Malcolm. "You're being ridiculous," Martin says.

Malcolm recoils, stumbles back, looking mortified at this creature before him. "So it is true." He mutters horrified. Everything was true.

Martin looks at him questioning. "You-" Malcolm points his finger at him, startling when his back meets the wall. "You forced me to hunt down a human being! You made me cut her and then-" He stops, trembling violently all over his body. The dinner. He closes his eyes, counting his breaths as the pleasant memories rush past his mind.

_Smells just like pork, Jessica wondered._

He opens his eyes in a dash. "You made all of us eat her," He gasps. His face is pale, and he might very well be going to be violently sick.

"Now, come on Malcolm. Your wild imagination is playing a trick on you-"

"No! Don't you do this again! I had you manipulating me for my whole life!" He screams enraged. "Maybe you may not realize it, but out there is a psycho! He's after us, torturing us, because of YOU!"

Martin snorts. "That might be a little far-fetched. How does one civilian find out and not the police, Malcolm?"

"Because grief finds a way! He doesn't have the luxury to wrap this case up! He can't just decide _not_ to think about the person he lost! This case is his life!"

So is it his. Son of the Surgeon, he has over twenty cases never leaving him alone. He thought there were 24, but now? Where is the guarantee that one is really the last one? There could be 26, or 27! Unresolved murders that can't be tailed back to the surgeon because this _asshole_ right here refuses to confess to his sins!

"I need a name," Malcolm breathes out, trying to calm his voice. He knows he won't get Martin to confess all of his murders, especially those Malcolm has no idea of. But he needs this, one name. To protect his mother, his sister, and himself.

Martin grimaces, shaking his head defiantly. "Sorry. Can't do it." He admits.

A surge of anger washes over him. "Do you have any idea what your stubbornness is causing? What it's doing to _me_?"

Martin doesn't answer, of course he doesn't. He has no idea.

"He broke into our homes. Manipulated the food at mother’s with a dead rat on our plate."

"Gruesome," Martin comments mildly, but not really bothered.

"He broke into my apartment, poured blood and organs while I was asleep!"

"He did?"

"And for god’s sake, he drugged me! I spent a day in the hospital thanks to that! And you are okay with that? You are okay with the knowledge that your family could die, one by one, because of what _you_ did?" He accuses him, only now noticing that he almost overstepped the red line in his rage. He immediately steps back, ignoring Martin's eyes all over him. He catches a look on his watch. He's been gone for almost an hour. Gil will notice, there's not much time left.

"That's all terrible, really, but I'm afraid there isn't much I can do." Martin eventually confesses.

Malcolm laughs bitterly. "All I need is one god damn name. We both know, the cadaver, the blood, organs, it all adds up with cannibalism. It is connected to her. Who was she?"

Martin looks at him intently, fighting with his inner self, debating over an answer. When he remains silent, Malcolm has to accept he is out of wits. What else can he do than begging to get him to talk? To end this torture?

"Please."

**x**

His finger drops on the enter button, a feeling of achievement filling his body. Although it is short-lived, the next task is a few scrolls further.

The monotone sound of a new message alerts him. He is late behind his work, lost precious time while guarding the hospital and keeping an eye on Malcolm. Even when he's still and quiet he his hella distracting. But only because Gil isn't used to a constant presence eyeing him expectantly. He can understand why Malcolm doesn't enjoy police protection. Gil would lie if he'd say he wasn't relieved to be off Bright-duty. He needed the break more than he thought. And what is one hour anyway?

His cursor mouses over to his mailbox. It is work, after all, he can't ignore it. Hopefully it isn't more work. He fears he has been a little too strict with Malcolm. And maybe also unfair. He doesn't want them to fight anymore. He hopes to end this day soon and apologize to the kid, a peace offering with his favorite food.

Apparently, he isn't the only mind thinking about the consultant. The email is from Garcia. She is procrastinating, overthinking their next moves instead of doing them. Gil was informed of Bright's futile attempts of trying to change everyone's mind about this case's objective. Never would he want to thwart the results, he's just shaken from the events. Gil doesn't have the heart to tell the kid that he can't blame everything on Martin. Even if that man is the worst father on earth, a little manipulating piece of shit.

> _I was wondering, what if Bright is right? Maybe this really isn't about the blackmail and it could be a distraction. Because if it is, it's working._

Gil bites his lip. Now Garcia is thinking it, too. Consumed by the fear that someone might be making a fool out of them. Although in all these years, Gil had learned that often things don't need to be complicated. Sometimes the straightforward and obvious things are right. Not many people are fucked up, and they don't get to meet a lot of those who are.

> _I know it might be stupid, but Bright really got us thinking. After all, isn't this his family? His father? Well, also another reason that he's overreacting, right? I'm just unsure about my next decisions. How about we proceed like planned, but we'll assign someone to Bright's theory? At least someone should have a look at it so we can verify our moves._
> 
> _Kind regards_
> 
> _Detective Garcia_

Gil smiles. This woman is a smart one, wrapping her cautious suggestions into a respectful and polite gift. Her compromise sounds good and makes sense. He already knows whom he will put onto that task and he is about to inform Garcia of his immediate moves.

A knock on his door, his head perks up. Dani peeks through the slit. "Hey boss, I'm taking a break and buying bagels. You want some?"

Gil frowns at her. "Another break, Powell? Isn't that a bit too much, don't you think?" He snorts amused.

Unfortunately, Dani doesn't follow. She tilts her head, scowling at him. "I haven't had a break today?" She objects irritated.

And then, finally, the warning bells ring in his head. Malcolm, that little piece of shit _lied_ to him. He manipulated him, no shame in using names for his own goals. Dani was never on a break and Gil believed it blindly. He shouldn't have let Malcolm out of his eyesight, he knew it! Or at least he should've checked the break room first.

Now it is too late, still he jumps up and stomps over to the room he saw his kid disappearing last.

"Gil? What is going on?" Dani follows him nervously. Gil doesn't provide her an answer. He is well aware that JT observes them and notices the building commotion.

Gil almost kicks the door open. The room is empty, except for one detective eating a sandwich in the corner. The window is open, blasting cold breezes into the small room.

"Carl!" He barks. The poor man startles, flinches back into the corner, innocently munching his food. "Have you seen Bright?" Gil asks, reprimanding himself to turn down his volume. He doesn't last long when the detective shakes his head with big eyes.

"Goddammit!"

"Boss, what's going on?" JT joins in, his gaze surveilling the room swiftly before looking back at his acting out superior.

Gil ignores both, rushes to the window instead. He looks out. It's impossible Bright might've attempted a jump, he isn't that weary of life. But, it might be possible he could've tried to reach another room by climbing out of the window. What are the odds that right at the time Malcolm was here another window was opened for him? Well, since he is gone, luck must've been on his side today.

''Did you open the window?" Dani throws to Carl, probably reading Gil's mind. What else might be the topic if Gil is searching for someone by looking out of the window? No one is as crazy as Bright.

Another innocent and confused shake of Carl’s head and Gil's next move is determined. "Oh... this kid." He grumbles menacingly as he stomps past Dani and JT, undoubtingly heading for the elevator. He thinks about calling Malcolm, but what are the chances the kid will attempt a getaway. At least for now Gil knows exactly where the kid might be. His stupid kid that he is going to _kill_ when he gets his hands on him!

**x**

Malcolm doesn't trust the time anymore. No new messages either, but there is no way Gil couldn't have noticed his absence. After all, one wrong move on Dani's side can uncover his lie. And the only reason Gil might not call him could be that he doesn't want to chase him away. From now on, Malcolm has to take into account that Gil could burst in every moment and drag him back.

He can't let that happen. Not without any answers.

"What? What could you possibly want in return for giving me her name?" Malcolm snarls. He is again trying it with bargaining, but he can still try to make Martin feel guilty as hell for that.

Martin chuckles, but it's obvious he's still not satisfied with the outcome. "Son, I can't tell you about her. I've never said anything about my victims to anyone. That's kinda my thing, that's the Surgeon for you."

Malcolm shakes his head. "Is it worth losing your family? Is it really worth losing your son for that stupid rule?" He snarks at him.

Martin cringes. "Haven't I lost my family 20 years ago? And you, 10 years ago?"

Malcolm spreads his arms to the side. "Am I an illusion to you? Are you going to pretend everything never happened? Ainsley's visits, mom's, _mine_?"

"No, of course not, but..."

Malcolm lifts his eyebrows. "Yeah? But what? Aren't we good enough for you?"

The Doctor doesn't answer. Malcolm risks a short glance at the clock.

"You claim to be the perfect father. You say you love us, but your words mean nothing to me. You are a liar, we all know it. Your words are worthless." Malcolm claims. "How about you put your money where your mouth is and _show_ me, that you really care about me."

Something, that Malcolm was unaware he possessed, _breaks_ in him. It shatters into millions of pieces, the shards stinging into his chest and heart. A voice, a dark voice in him sizzles _I told you so, I told you all along._ He should've known his father doesn't care about him. He realized it when he found out he was going to kill him as a kid. Malcolm had thought that kid in him had died for real. Understood that his father never really loved him.

It didn't die. But now it sure did.

As if scales falling from his eyes he saw the truth clear as daylight. He was nothing to him. He was a fool for thinking he could converse with a monster that would feed upon him if it weren't for the leash.

All air seemed to dissipate from the room, and he needed to go out. Leave, even if he didn't get what he came for. He couldn't stay here a second longer and he would never return. He couldn't.

He turned around, almost stumbling on weak legs to the door. He lifted his fist, ready to knock and storm out.

"Wait, Malcolm!" His father called, a frightening urgency present in his voice. Malcolm's fist is still up, reluctant to perform the last action.

"Alright, fine. I'll tell you. But only once."

Malcolm fights off the relieved smile, he isn't proud of it. He knows it's better if he faces the truth sooner or later. He can almost feel a small hand on his hip making him face his father. Apparently, it takes a lot more to kill that stubborn child in him.

**x**

The elevator sucks, it sucks having to wait instead of acting. But they all know it's faster that way than actually taking the steps. The moment they reach the floor they run, out of the precinct, into the cold day.

"Where should we look?" JT prompts mid-run towards their own cars. Gil already scans the area up ahead.

"Malcolm wants to solve the case, there's only one place he would want to go." He explains in between loud and fast breaths. He isn't young anymore.

"Claremont." Dani realizes next to him, Gil nods in affirmation.

"Guess it really was a bad idea to let him work through his father's files," JT grumbles, shooting a reproachful glare at Dani. She returns it in silence.

Gil wants to interrupt them, they have no time to fight. But he stands in front of nothing, fumbling through empty pockets. This is a nightmare.

**x**

Malcolm exits the psychiatric hospital with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He got what he came for, but it still isn't over. They may have reached the final stage, but the worst is yet to survive. He has a name to research, but he really needs someone to help and believe him to pull this off.

Malcolm has no one.

He spots the car on the side of the street with a groan. Of course, what else did he expect? He was surprised his visit wasn't interrupted at all, but if he's being honest, he would be disappointed if Gil wouldn't know about his escape yet. Still, he had hoped there would be a bigger period of time before he would be forced to face him.

He trudges begrudgingly to the all too familiar car. No doubt Gil observes him and waits. He expects him to enter the car so he can give him a lecture while driving back to the precinct. Malcolm can survive this. It isn't the first time he's having a fight with Gil. He'll just get over with it and then he'll inform them of the news.

He opens the car door and plummets into the seat with a sigh. He is greeted by silence, which for the moment he is very grateful for. Only if said silence stretches through the whole ride it'll quickly get uncomfortable.

So he starts, getting over with it like ripping off a patch. "Alright, I know it wasn't my best idea to sneak out," He begins, risking a glance towards the driver seat. He chokes on his words, freezing in his position.

This isn't Gil.

**x**

"Where the fuck is my car?!" Gil bellows frustrated into the overfilled parking lot. Except for his place, that is unnatural empty. It is the cherry on top of the cream to his already shitty day. He doesn't doubt it will go worse from here, he already knows it will.

"You can drive with me." Dani offers, already walking to her car.

"No," Gil says, holding his open hand towards her. "Someone stole my car."

JT follows Dani, probably deciding to join the ride as well. "Yeah, but we kind of have bigger problems right now." He huffs. After all, he never really understood the connection Gil has to his beloved cars.

"And you think that's a coincidence?" Gil prompts.

Finally, Dani and JT slowly understand what he's implying. And they have to admit, that doesn't sound good. It could be very, very bad.

**x**

Malcolm's hands dart to the door. He pushes, but it won't open for him anymore.

He's trapped. With a stranger, in Gil's car.

The door is no exit anymore. Malcolm knows, if he allows that car to drive away his problem will become bigger than it already is. He needs to thwart the stranger's attempts, needs to stall some time and bite himself out. At the least he should make civilians attentive of something fishy going on over here. The possibility of getting found decreases with a secondary location.

Malcolm pushes himself away from the door when he hears the engine roar into life. He is quick, his kidnapper doesn't expect him to attack the other side of the car. Malcolm grabs the pair of keys and pulls them back out. Before the man can react Malcolm has them relocated in the back of the car.

The stranger unbuckles his seat belt and bends to the back of the car. Malcolm could snap his neck, or else could hurt him very badly. But he isn't here to kill someone. He doesn't want to kill someone, he wants to escape.

He throws himself over the man, brushing against the gearshift lever. Malcolm knows this car, it doesn't take long for him to find the button to disable the child safety lock. While doing this he also lifts the emergency brake, in cases of, well, an emergency.

Once the car is opened again he returns to his side, gripping the handle and pulling it. The _click_ echoes seconds before he can open the door. Malcolm furrows his eyebrows irritated, realizing that the key must’ve been found already.

The car door opens, and he cries out in relief. His mind must’ve played a trick on him because he wasn’t completely too late. The energy to jump out of the car is prepared but hindered by a pair of strong arms embracing his waist. He grunts against the force dragging him back inside, it’s like fighting off a vortex. He thrashes and flails blindly, opens his mouth multiple times like a goldfish with no sound escaping.

His arms find the frame of the door and settle tightly into place like an anchor. He begins to push himself out of the car, even if it means he’ll land face-first on the concrete. It’s a thousand times better than getting dragged back into the car.

One hit, like a shovel digging into his neck, and his body refuses to listen to him. He is dazed for a moment, his limbs taking the liberty to go completely slack. Offering zero resistance he gets hauled back into the inner room. He doesn’t come to without hearing the door fall into its place.

The stranger in the familiar place inserts the key back into the ignition. The car only roars up for a split second before all the lights die out, dragging along the engine.

The wrong gear combined with the lifted handbrake, there is no way the man could start the car like that. Malcolm may not be able to drive a car, but literally every human in the world can make one stall. It's a win for him, he managed to buy himself some time to continue the fight for his escape.

The advantage of getting kidnapped in a familiar car is that Malcolm knows everything about it. He knows a lot of unnecessary things he was forced to listen to when Gil told him all about it. What really matters now is the glove box though. Gil always carries a window hammer in his car, for emergencies, no matter if it is his own or someone else's.

This hammer could be Malcolm's lifesaver.

He bends forward, his hands shaking as he fights to open the lock. Luckily the stranger on Gil's seat ignores him, too occupied with getting the car started again. Although he doesn't need long for that, Malcolm has barely a few seconds.

He finds the red tool immediately. His hand steadies calmly around it. He could also hit the kidnapper with it. Instead he concentrates all power to release it at the window.

He smashes it against the glass, frustrated when it doesn't break immediately. He repeats the process, again and again. He realizes mortified, it's no use. He can't break the glass with the hammer. It's too strong. For emergencies this hammer is bullshit, why did no one ever tell him about that?

A fist collides with his temple. His vision blacks out in an instant. His body falls slack, leaning on the cold and apparently unbreakable window. From the corner of his mind he hears the familiar sound of the engine roaring into life.

He can do this. Things might look pretty bad, but he can still escape this. He is Malcolm Bright, surely he won't let himself get kidnapped so easily.

Shouts from outside enter his mind. He managed to make civilians attentive. That's good, that's very good. But he still needs to escape. Drag his body up and punch back already. No time to sleep.

He can do this!

**x**

"Lieutenant Arroyo?"

Dani, JT, and Gil stop exchanging glances. Their attention redirects to the newcomer standing behind them.

Gil turns around, faces the two rookie officers with a mighty gaze. They are intimated, but something keeps them standing straight and brave. He dreads to find out what it is. He doesn't have a say in this. He'll find out, sooner or later. In this case, sooner is the correct answer.

The taller one urges the smaller cop to say it. Gil doesn't believe his ears what he hears.

"Lieutenant Arroyo, you are under arrest."

"What?"

"Whoa, hey, hold on, hold on!" Dani interrupts, jogging towards the scene with JT in tow. Both detectives act as a barrier to hinder their boss from getting arrested by his own subordinates. "What are you talking about?" She snaps, spreading her arms protectively. "Yeah, what for?" JT adds irritated.

The two officers exchange looks, already pulling out a pair of handcuffs. Adrenaline pumps through Gil, he doesn't understand what's going on and it's more than just setting him on edge.

When he hears the reason for his arrest, a world shatters for him.

"For kidnapping, Sir."


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write meaningful openings like:

His throat is raspy dry. He isn't sure why this is the first thing bothering him, but here we are.

His eyelids are heavy, the moment he forces them open they fall back shut. Neither wants his body to cooperate any soon. He figures it is a real fight to produce any movements, so the groan escaping his mouth is rather involuntary.

He concentrates all his brainpower on getting up. It just doesn't work. Frustrated he gives up. Fine by him, what is a few hours more sleep? Happens rarely in his lifetime, so let it be.

Unlike expected, doing nothing is, unfortunately, not the same as peace. He's dreading not to know anything. What happened last? What brought him into this weird condition? Also, it's plain boring. Then up, up we go. Wiggle a finger... no? How about a toe, would make more sense for walking, right? No, no response, okay.

Alright, if moving doesn't work, scratch that. He'll try something better. Thinking! He needs answers. All he has to do is to remember. Right, easy? So, where does he start? Ugh, apparently nowhere-

Cold and wet! A fucking tsunami hit him!

Malcolm tears his eyes open with a shocked gasp. If anything good comes by the sudden attack, it's his nerves flaring into life and making his muscles move. It's not quite in his control, shivers spasming and interrupting his weak flailing attempts, but it's something.

"You've been out for a good while. Didn't expect the drugs to react so wildly on you."

It's an unfamiliar voice. It really is. Malcolm quickly registers that he has never heard it in his life before. The profiler in him already curses, not enjoying the disadvantage it puts him in. The man in him, that doesn't understand one bit of what's going on, well he curses as well. What the fuck is going on here?

The water makes it definitely easier for him to stay awake. He isn't bent to float back into the darkness all over again. Although, as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings, he isn't particularly sure he likes this either.

"Where the hell am I?" He croaks, only realizing he said it out loud when his throat flares in pain. Maybe some of that water should've landed in to soothe the burning. Or wait, maybe that is the reason his throat is burning in the first place.

"Do you always ask the wrong questions?"

One thing Malcolm is sure of. He doesn't like that damn annoying voice. It's obviously male, a bit too strident here, a little too raucous there, but in general, it's very toneless. There is no emotion in the words, it's like the man behind them already died years ago and drags himself listlessly through the world.

So much for analyzing this stranger's voice, which seemed like a perfectly good idea in his state. So how about making use of that eyes that aren't dropping shut anymore, shall we?

Malcolm turns around, his world spinning and the ground swaying. He catches himself on his elbow. His hip grunts in exertion to the uncomfortable position it is forced to, but that's everything Malcolm has to offer. He ain't gonna stand up any soon, nope, he rather throws up.

So when he heaves out the last rest of bile, he finally tries to acknowledge the man in front of him. Or rather say kidnapper. Exactly. The moment Malcolm sees his face he remembers. The man in the car, that ugly bony man with dark bags under his sunken eyes. Not only his hair is gray, no, also his face has a weird shade of gray. He is dressed in black, but it's actually very casual. Malcolm can detect dark black trousers and a thick jacket. Combined with his almost meatless limps, it looks all pretty sad.

So that dude definitely wouldn't make it as a model for Calvin Klein underwear, how does it help Malcolm's situation? Alright, first of all, he'd better get rid of all the sarcasm in his head. For once he doesn't seem to be the psycho in the room, and if he destroys that by laughing out loud at nothing he's going to be very pissed.

The stranger raises an eyebrow at Malcolm. Oh no, does he expect something? He did say something, maybe he wants an answer. What did he say, think Malcolm, _think_. He'd wish life would be this easy, he could simply scroll back the history and reread what happened. But it isn't, so he needs to make the best of it.

"Hi."

Yeah alright, he's probably just going to make it worse. Sure Malcolm, why don't you peacefully converse with your kidnapper. Maybe he'll make you a cup of tea and you'll eat a few biscuits. Stupid.

"Are you back?" The man frowns. Malcolm is grateful that the man understands him and even shows patience. After all, it's his fault for drugging Malcolm. There is no way a simple punch kept him out that long. He doesn't know how long he was gone, but judging from the lightness, it's night. And he visited his father... Oh right, lunch. He lied to Gil. He is so gonna die.

"Yeah, I guess I'm back," Malcolm decides to answer, and he really feels fully back. The world doesn't spin anymore, the ground is solid, and his muscles are back from vacation. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, here we go.

The strange man gives him time to survey his surroundings. It's not much actually. It's a cabin. A tight, little, shabby cabin. He is sitting on the ground, not even on a carpet. Upon seeing the rug though, he's actually relieved. Doesn't want to know what that piece of garbage carries for bugs.

Next to him is one horribly ugly couch. It's red, but very bleached by age so it's more of a dirty orange. He can already see the hard spring ramming into the ass just upon sitting down. He bets that's why the man is standing, hovering over him like a vulture.

Apparently, the dining room is the little table to the couch, judging by the leftovers and the empty cans of beer.

A funky odor reaches his nose, he's going to put his money that it's coming from the pale room in the corner, without doubt the bathroom. The room next to it doesn't appear better, you can literally see the dirt glued to the floor. Malcolm would never willingly set foot into that kitchen.

That bastard truly doesn't live the glorious life, he must've been astounded when he broke into the Whitly mansion to prepare the desserts.

Malcolm scowls, wondering why he is acknowledging those parts of the cabin rather than searching for an exit. He turns to his left, his gaze flying past the old TV, past the old wardrobe with alcohol bottles, and there it is. The door. It's behind Malcolm's back and almost too easy to reach.

"You like my home?" The man hums behind him. He doesn't sound angry or mad. He doesn't even sound nice or sad. He just sounds dead. "It isn't anything like the homes you are used to, right, Malcolm?"

Malcolm swallows at the mention of his name. Undoubtingly it sets him on edge, although he should be aware of it. After all, he finally meets the man that has been harassing his family. Stalking his little sister and then escalating with Malcolm.

So he cautiously chooses to answer with a neutral "It's homey." It isn't his fault that he was born and raised in a rich family and therefore sticks out as a spoiled brat.

"Don't worry, you ain't gonna stay here for long," The man murmurs, and Malcolm isn't sure if that's good or bad. He can't detect any threats with this toneless voice. It simply doesn't add up with his profile. He suspected a raging man with a very short temper. Instead of undying patience, he expected explosive screaming and kicking. He thought the man would be dying for revenge, and not dead already. Torturing and kidnapping the Whitlys seems more like an obligation to him.

"That sounds... good?" Malcolm tries his luck. If anything of his profile should be right, this man is fixated on making Martin suffer. Also his family but seeing him act so distant and unbothered gives Bright hope that he doesn't care about him. That he doesn't want to kill him, rather scare the shit out of Martin and then release him.

"It certainly isn't good for you," answers the man and simultaneously destroys Malcolm's last hope. "Now, Malcolm Whitly,"

"I go by Bright-"

"I don't care." The man interrupts Malcolm's interruption unimpressed. He really doesn't care. Not at all. And that's bad, he doesn't value Malcolm as a living being. Or at least like an equal human being with feelings and rights. This is very bad.

"I'm on a tight schedule. Would you be so kind to lend me your jacket," He deadpans, extending his arms to accept Malcolm's offering. Bright hesitates, reluctantly touches the protecting layer, that despite being wet still warms him. Something seems fishy.

"Actually, I like this suit a lot. It's the same one I wore when I got into the NYPD. It kind of means a lot to me-" He stalls, though his teeth click shut when the superior man pulls out a huge hunting knife.

"Do you understand this language better?"

Malcolm swallows, his eyes drawn to the glaring blade. The corners of his mouth lift, he looks up to the man with a nervous laugh. "That- that is a pretty one. Does it have a name?"

The stranger darts forward, surprisingly fast for his general appearance. Malcolm didn't calculate this speed, still he is ready to catch the wrist before the knife can dig into his shoulder. He pulls, the man losing his balance and tipping over. Unfortunately, Malcolm didn't take into account that he forgot to try out his feet earlier. The funny thing is, they refuse to work as Malcolm wishes them to. So, instead of jumping up and restraining the man in a tight hold, he can watch the body fall all over him. Another surprise to him, but the man is much heavier than he looks like. Having had more luck, the man takes his advantage over Malcolm and pins him on his stomach.

"I never expected you to be a fighter, to be honest," The man admits calmly, but there are signs of heavy breaths coming from the unexpected action. Malcolm grunts as the man straddles him effectively, pushing his hip against the harsh wood. "I made my mistake with you in the car. I thought I learned, but there's still so much fire in you," He notices. He stripes off Malcolm's jacket without bothering the damage he inflicts on it. His best guess is that he's going to send it to his family, although typically a strand of hair or a finger would make better up for it. Not that he is protesting. Better send that jacket home and have it jammed into a cleaner.

"Don't worry, little deer. You'll get the chance to burn off some steam," He mutters, more to himself than to Malcolm. He frowns at the nickname. Little deer?

The moment he is stripped of his jacket he freezes. The man stands up, and Malcolm doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around him. "Man, do you have no heater in here? Or at least a fireplace?" His kidnapper ignores him, instead inspects the jacket for... sweat stains?

"You know, if you could let me go home I could buy you a heater- scratch that, I could buy you a new house," Malcolm continues his rambling, surveying his surroundings disgusted.

"No need," The man huffs and drops his hand with the jacket, "I like it here very much."

Malcolm raises one eyebrow. "You do?"

The man stalks emotionlessly past Malcolm towards the front door. A chance to flee is his first thought, this time though he checks if his legs are ready. Sadly they aren't, so he better start making them ready.

The door opens, revealing a clear sight of a forest despite the darkness it is engulfed in. "That's a neat view, I gotta admit." Malcolm whistles impressed. "Although, I am more of a city boy," He thinks bitterly. His father introduced to him the love of nature, almost immediately making him fear it as well.

"That doesn't come you in handy in here," The man deadpans, looking at Malcolm with his blank eyes. Malcolm's nervous smile quivers. He really can't cope with this unpredictable attitude. He dreads the moment the man will snap, and he is sure he will. When that will happen, Malcolm is truly fucked.

"What a bummer," He chortles, trying to lift the tense mood. It helps him keep sane and ironically focused. If he doesn't humor himself he will succumb to fear, after that he can throw rational thinking out of the window. "Now I sure am glad I'm inside this wonderful cabin."

The corners of the stranger's mouth twitch, slightly rising into a malicious grin. Malcolm's smile drops, his heart plummeting into his pants. This can't be good.

"You are free to go."

Malcolm remains tight on his place on the floor. He eyes the man intently, searching for anything that could confirm his suspicions. This is a trap, an obvious trap. Why is the man offering him freedom? Or maybe he is overthinking things and there are no quirks to the offer. The cruelty could be that Malcolm could be so close to freedom, but willingly objecting it out of fear.

"No, actually you aren't free to do so. I am afraid you must leave," The man corrects his former statement.

Malcolm gasps, "What?"

Then the man walks towards him. The reaction is a reflex as he scoots away from the man. He scrambles further away until he can't anymore, his back pressed against the world's ugliest couch. The kidnapper uses that to grab Malcolm by his collar and drag him up to his feet. "You are one strange hostage," He comments, pulling him towards the door. Malcolm can feel the icy breeze before actually being outside.

The moment he surpasses the door frame, he can fly. Pushed away from the house Malcolm flies over the stairs of the porch and lands on the wet, cold grass. Only one shin connects with the last stair. He will probably leave this one with a bruise.

"Go, Malcolm," The man demands from his elevated position. He leans on the door frame, looking down on Malcolm like he is a wiggling maggot.

"Where to?" Malcolm objects offended. "I'm in the middle of nowhere. There's only a forest ahead of me."

"Exactly," The man snorts, but it sounds like praise. "This is your escape route. If you don't like it-" He grabs into the house and pulls out a beautiful brown rifle, "You are free to wait outside the door until I decide to kill you."

Malcolm pales, eying the man in disbelief. "You want to hunt me like prey," He realizes in horror.

The man lowers his head, fumbling with the weapon in his hand. He chuckles, but Malcolm could've easily misheard. Not when the man lifts his head and smiles at him, almost lovingly. "Like the prey you are," He whispers.

Malcolm jumps up, stumbling backward. Away from the house, away from the man. "You don't have to do this. Revenge won't make you happy," Malcolm croaks, weak attempts to save himself. It's too late. He has fallen too deep into the dark hole called fear. He can't think anymore, can't produce a useful thought to save himself from this horrible fate. He is going to die tonight, hunted down like a wild animal.

The man studies him amused, a fire in his eyes that Malcolm hasn’t expected anymore. He turns around, walking into the definitely warmer place. "Use your time wisely, Malcolm," He advises. He means the lead he's giving Malcolm. Some time to get a few meters distance to make it a fair hunt. It catches Malcolm off guard to find out the hunt has already begun.

He aims and he shoots.

The barking noise screeches through the night. Malcolm drops to the ground, a trained reflex to this sound. He isn't shot yet, and he can't risk it. He has to cling to that little string called life. So while the psychopath reloads his gun, Malcolm scrambles onto his feet. He stumbles multiple times, nearly falling on his nose once. He seeks to find shelter in the forest. He jumps into the darkness, away from any light at the cabin. He becomes blind and deaf at the same time.

Not the best conditions in a fight for survival.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was probably feeling waaay too sarcastic to be allowed to write a kidnapping scene, but... let's be honest. Malcolm deserves to be pissed.


End file.
